v 


U^i  N^—  ^       ^ 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


WITH    NUMEROUS    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street. 

Clje  Htfarrs'ttic  }3rcfi£,  Cambridge. 

1886. 


Copyright,  1841, 1843, 1846,  1847,  1849, 1855, 1858, 1863, 1865,  1866, 1867, 
1871,  1872, 1873, 1874, 1875, 1876, 1877, 1878,  and  1880, 

Br  HEJJRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Copyright,  1882  and  1883, 
Bt  ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW,  ADMINISTRATOR 

Copyright,  1882  and  1883, 
BT  H«UGUT«N,  MIFFLIN  &  €•. 

All  rights  reserved. 


COLLEGE 
UBRAft 

KS 


CONTENTS. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NlGHT. 

Prelude  ............................. 

Hymn  to  the  Night  ................... 

A  Psalm  of  Life  ...................... 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers  ........... 

The  Light  of  Stars  .................... 

Footsteps  of  Angels  ................... 

Flowers  ............................. 

The  Beleaguered  City  ................. 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year  ..... 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

An  April  Day  ........................ 

Autumn  ............................. 

Woods  in  Winter  .................... 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Beth 
lehem  ............................. 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills  .................. 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry  ................. 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink  .............. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Coplas  de  Manrique  ..................  19 

The  Good  Shepherd  ..................  22 

To-morrow  ..........................  23 

The  Native  Land  ...................  23 

The  Image  of  God  ...................  23 

The  Brook  ..........................  23 

The  Celestial  Pilot  ...................  23 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise  .............  24 

Beatrice  .....................  .  .  ,  .....  24 

Spring  ...................  ,  ..........  24 

The  Child  Asleep  ....................  24 

The  Grave  ................  .  ..........  25 

King  Christian  ......................  25 

The  Happiest  Land  ..................  26 

The  Wave  .....................  26 

The  Dead  ...........................  26 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship  ...............  26 

Whither?  ..............  .............  27 

Beware  !  ............................  27 

Song  of  the  Bell  .....................  27 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea  ...............  27 

The  Black  Knight  ...................  28 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land  ..............  28 

L'Envoi.  ............................  28 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor  ..............  29 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus  ..........  31 

The  Luck  of  Edenhall  ...............  32 

The  Elected  Knight  .................  32 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPBB.  .  .  33 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Village  Blacksmith  ..............  37 

Endymion  .....             ................  38 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair  .............  38 

It  is  not  always  May  .................  39 

The  Rainy  Day  ......................  39 

God's-Acre  ..........................  39 

To  the  River  Charles  ................  39 

Blind  Bartimeus.  .  .  .40 


MISCELLANEOUS.  PA« 

The  Gobletof  Life 40 

Maidenhood 40 

Excelsior 42 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

To  William  E.  Channing 42 

The  Slave's  Dream 42 

The  Good  Part,  that  shall  not  be  taken 

away 43 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp 43 

The  Slave  Singing  at  Midnight 44 

The  Witnesses 44 

The  Quadroon  Girl 44 

The  Warning 45 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 45 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Carillon 63 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges 64 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A  Gleam  of  Sunshine 65 

/        The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 66 

Nuremberg 66 

The  Norman  Baron 67 

Rain  in  Summer 67 

To  a  Child 68 

The  Occultation  of  Orion 69 

The  Bridge 70 

To  the  Driving  Cloud 70 


SONGS. 


Seaweed 71 

The  Day  is  done 71 

Afternoon  in  February 72 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book 72 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid 73 

Drinking  Song TS 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 73 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song 74 


SONNETS. 


The  Evening  Star 74 

Autumn 74 

Dante 74 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Hemlock  Tree 75 

Annie  of  Tharaw 76 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door. . .  76 

The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill 76 

The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls 76 

Poetic  Aphorisms 77 

CURFEW 77 

EVANGELINE.     A  TALE  OF  ACADIE 78 

THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Dedication..  .  99 


CONTENTS. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE.  PAGE 

BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship 100 

Chrysaor 104 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea 105 

Twilight 105 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 105 

The  Lighthouse 106 

The  Fire  of  Drift-Wood 106 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Resignation 107 

The  Builders 107 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Glass. .  107 

Birds  of  Passage 108 

The  Open  Window 109 

KingWitlaf's  Drinking-Horn 109 

Caspar  Becerra 109 

Pegasus  in  Pound 109 

Tegner's  Drapa 110 

Sonnet .'110 

The  Singers 110 

Suspiria Ill 

Hymn Ill 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille Ill 

A  Christmas  Carol 114 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

Introduction 115 

I.     The  Peace-Pipe 11(5 

II.     The  Four  Winds 117 

in.     Hiawatha's  Childhood 119 

IV.     Hiawatha  and  Mudjekeewis 121 

V.     Hiawatha's  Fasting 123 

VI.     Hiawatha's  Friends 125 

vii.     Hiawatha's  Sailing 126 

VIII.     Hiawatha's  Fishing 127 

ix.  Hiawatha  and  the  Pearl  Feather. .  129 

x.     Hiawatha's  Wooing 131 

xi.     Hiawatha's  Wedding-Feast 132 

xn.     The  Son  of  the  Evening  Star 134 

Xin.     Blessing  the  Cornfields 136 

Xiv.     Picture-Writing 138 

xv.     Hiawatha's  Lamentation 139 

XVI.     Pau-Puk-Keewis 141 

xvii.  The  Hunting  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis  .  142 

xviii.     The  Death  of  Kwasind. 145 

Xix.     The  Ghosts. ." ' 146 

XX.     The  Famine 147 

xxi.     The  White  Man's  Foot 149 

XXII.     Hiawatha's  Departure 150 

THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH 

I.  Miles  Standish 152 

II.  Love  and  Friendship 153 

III.  The  Lover's  Errand 155 

IV.  JohnAlden 157 

v.  The  Sailing  of  the  May  Flower....  158 

VI.  Priscilla 160 

vn.  The  March  of  Miles  Standish 162 

vm.  The  Spinning-Wheel 1 63 

ix.  The  Wedding-Day 165 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT  THE  FIRST. 

Prometheus,  or  the  Poet's  Forethought  166 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine 167 

The  Phantom  Ship 167 

The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 168 

Haunted  Houses 1 08 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge 168 

The  Emperor's  Bird's-Nest 161) 

The  Two  Angels 169 

Daylight  and  Moonlight 169 

The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport 170 

Oliver  Basselin .  170 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  PAGB 

FLIGHT  THE  FIRST. 

Victor  Galbraith 171 

My  Lost  Youth 171 

The  Ropewalk 172 

The  Golden  Mile-Stone 172 

Catawba  Wine 173 

Santa  Filomena 173 

The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape 174 

Daybreak 175 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz 175 

Children 175 

Sandalphon 175 

FLIGHT  THE  SECOND. 

The  Children's  Hour 176 

Enceladus 176 

The  Cumberland 176 

Snow-Flakes      177 

A  Day  of  Sunshine 177 

Something  Left  Undone 177 

Weariness 177 

FLIGHT  THE  THIRD. 

Fata  Morgana .• 178 

The  Haunted  Chamber 178 

The  Meeting 178 

VoxPopuli ' 178 

The  Castle-Builder , 179 

Changed 179 

The  Challenge 179 

The  Brook  and  the  Wave 179 

From  the  Spanish  Cancioneros 179 

Aftermath 180 

Epimetheus,  or  the  Poet's  Afterthought  180 

TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 
PART  FIRST. 
Prelude. 

The  Wayside  Inn 181 

The  Landlord's  Tale. 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 183 

Interlude 184 

The  Student's  Tale. 

The  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo 185 

Interlude 187 

The  Spanish  Jew's  Tale. 

The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi 188 

Interlude 188 

The  Sicilian's  Tale. 

King  Robert  of  Sicily 188 

Interlude 190 

The  Musician's  Tale. 

The  Saga  of  King  Olaf 190 

I.     The  Challenge  of  Thor 190 

ii.     King  Olaf  s  Return 190 

ill.     Thora  of  Rimol 191 

iv.     Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty 191 

v.     The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 192 

VL     The  Wraith  of  Odin 193 

VII.     Iron-Beard 193 

vm.     Gudrun 195 

IX.     Thangbrand  the  Priest 195 

X.     Raud  the  Strong 19fi 

XI.     Bishop  Sigurd  at  Salten  Fiord 196 

XII.     King  Olaf's  Christmas 197 

xin.     The  Building  of  the  Long  Serpent.  197 

xiv.     The  Crew  of  the  Long  Serpent 198 

xv.     A  Little  Bird  in  the  Air 198 

xvi.     Queen   Thyri    and    the    Angelica 

Stalks 199 

xvn.     King  Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard  199 

xvin.     King  Olaf  and  Earl  Sigvald 200 

xix.     King  Olaf's  War- Horns 200 

xx.     Einar  Tamberskelver 201 

XXI.     King  Olaf's  Death-Drink 201 

xxii.    The  Nun  of  Nidaros 203 


CONTENTS. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN.  PAGE 

PART  FIRST 

Interlude 203 

The  Theologian's  Tale. 

Torquemada 203 

Interlude 205 

The  Poet's  Tale. 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth 205 

Finale 207 

IJART  SECOND. 

Prelude 207 

The  Silician's  Tale. 

The  Bell  of  Atri 208 

Interlude 209 

The  Spanish  Jew's  Tale . 

Kambalu 209 

Interlude 210 

The  Student's  Tale. 

The  Cobbler  of  Hagenau 210 

Interlude 212 

The  Musician's  Tale. 

The  Ballad  of  Carmilhan 212 

Interlude 214 

The  Poet's  Tale. 

Lady  Wentworth 215 

Interlude 216 

The  Theologian's  Tale. 

The  Legend  Beautiful 216 

Interlude 217 

The  Student's  Second  Tale. 

The  Baron  of  St.  Castine 217 

Finale 219 

PART  THIRD. 

Prelude 220 

The  Spanish  Jew's  Tale. 

Azrael 220 

Interlude 221 

The  Poet's  Tale. 

Charlemagne 221 

Interlude 222 

The  Student's  Tale. 

Emma  and  Eginhard 222 

Interlude 224 

The  Theologian's  Tale. 

Elizabeth 224 

Interlude 228 

The  Silician's  Tale. 

The  Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore  228 

Interlude 230 

The  Spanish  Jew's  Second  Tale. 

Scanderbeg 230 

Interlude 231 

The  Musician's  Tale. 

The  Mother's  Ghost 232 

Interlude 233 

The  Landlord's  Tale. 

The  Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher 233 

Finale 234 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Flower-de-Luce 235 

Palingenesis 236 

The  Bridge  of  Cloud 236 

Hawthorne 237 

Christmas  Bells 237 

The  Wind  over  the  Chimney 237 

The  Bells  of  Lynn 238 

Killed  at  the  Ford 238 

Giotto's  Tower 238 

To-morrow 238 

Divina  Commedia 238 

Noel 239 

JUDAS  MACCABEUS 240 


A  HANDFUL  OF  TRANSLATIONS.        ^  PAGE 

The  Fugitive 247 

The  Siege  of  Kazan 247 

The  Boy  and  the  Brook 248 

To  the  Stork 248 

Consolation 248 

To  Cardinal  Richelieu 248 

The  Angel  and  the  Child 249 

To  Italy 249 

Wanderer's  Night-Songs 249 

Remorse 249 

Santa  Teresa's  Book-Mark 249 

THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

i.     The  Workshop  of  Hephaestus . .  250 
ii.     Olympus 250 

III.  Tower  of  Prometheus  on  Mount 

Caucasus 250 

IV.  The  Air 252 

v.     The  House  of  Epimetheus 253 

VI.     In  the  Garden 253 

vn.     The  House  of  Epimetheus 255 

viii.     In  the  Garden 256 

THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CHANE 257 

MORITURI  SALUTAMUS 259 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 

Charles  Sumner 261 

Travels  by  the  Fireside 261 

Cadenabbia 261 

Monte  Cassino 262 

Amalfi 263 

The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis 2(53 

Belisarius 263 

Songo  River 264 

A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 

Three  Friends  of  Mine 264 

Chaucer 265 

Shakespeare 265 

Milton 265 

Keats 265 

The  Galaxy 265 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea 266 

A  Summer  Day  by  the  Sea 266 

The  Tides 266 

A  Shadow 266 

A  Nameless  Grave 266 

Sleep 266 

The  Old  Bridge  at  Florence 266 

II  Ponte  Vecchio  di  Firenze 266 


267 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 

The  Herons  of  Elmwood  ..............  270 

A  Dutch  Picture  ......................  270 

Castles  in  Spain  ......................  271 

Vittoria  Colonna  .....................  271 

The  Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face  ......  272 

To  the  Rivei  Yvette  ..................  272 

The  Emperor's  Glove  .................  272 

A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet  ..........  273 

The  Leap  of  Roushan  Beg  .............  27-3 

Haroun  Al  Raschid  ...................  274 

King  Trisanku  .......................  274 

A  Wraith  in  the  Mist  ................  274 

The  Three  Kings  .....................  274 

Song  ................................  275 

The  White  Czar  ...............  .......  275 

Delia  ................................  275 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


A  BOOK  OP  SONNETS.  —  PART  II.  PAGE 

Nature 275 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown 275 

Eliot's  Oak..r " 276 

The  Harvest  Moon 276 

The  Descent  of  the  Muses 276 

Venice 276 

The  Poets 276 

Parker  Cleaveland 277 

To  the  River  Rhone 277 

The  Three  Silences  of  Molinos 277 

The  Two  Rivers 277 

Boston 277 

St.  John's,  Cambridge 278 

Moods 278 

Woodstock  Park 278 

The  Four  Princesses  at  Wilna 278 

Holidays 278 

Wapentake 278 

The  Broken  Oar 278 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Virgil's  First  Eclogue 279 

Ovid  in  Exile 280 

On  the  Terrace  of  the  Aigalades 282 

To  my  Brooklet 282 

Barrages 282 

Forsaken 283 

Allah 283 

SEVEN   SONNETS  AND  A  CANZONE,    FROM  THE 
ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I.  The  Artist 283 

ii.  Fire •. .  283 

in.  Youth  and  Age 283 

iv.  Old  Age 283 

v.  To  Vittoria  Colonna 284 

vi.  To  Vittoria  Colonna 284 

vn.  Dante 284 

viii.  Canzone ..  284 


ULTIMA  THULE. 
Dedication 


285 

POEMS. 

Bayard  Taylor 285 

The  Chamber  over  the  Gate 285 

From  my  Arm-chair 285 

Jugurtha 286 

The  Iron  Pen 286 

Robert  Burns 287 

Helen  of  Tyre 287 

Elegiac 288 

Old  St.  David's  at  Radnor 288 

FOLK  SONGS. 

The  Sifting  of  Peter 288 

The  Tide  Rises,  the  Tide  Falls 289 

Maiden  and  Weathercock 289 

The  Windmill 289 

SONNETS. 

My  Cathedral 290 

The  Burial  of  the  Poet,  R.  H.  Dana. . .  290 
Night 290 

L'Esvoi. 

The  Poet  and  his  Songs 290 


IN  THE  HARBOR.  PAGE 

Becalmed 291 

Hermes  Trismegistus 291 

The  Poet's  Calendar 291 

Mad  River,  in  the  White  Mountains-.. .  293 
Auf  Wiedersehen.     In   Memory  of  J. 

T.  F 294 

The  Children's  Crusade 294 

The  City  and  the  Sea 295 

Sundown 295 

President  Garfield 295 

Decoration  Day 295 

Chimes 295 

Four  by  the  Clock . .  296 

The  Four  Lakes  of  Madison 296 

Moonlight 296 

To  the  Avon 296 

Elegiac  Verse 297 

A  Fragment 297 

The  Bells  of  San  Bias 297 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Prelude 298 

From  the  French 298 

The  Wine  of  Juranfon 298 

At  La  Chaudeau 299 

A  Quiet  Life 299 

PERSONAL  POEMS. 

Loss  and  Gain 299 

Autumn  Within 299 

Victor  and  Vanquished 299 

Memories 299 

Mv  Books 300 


L'ENVOI. 

Possibilities . 


300 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Dedication 300 

PART  FIRST. 

I.  Prologue  at  Ischia 300 

n.  Monologue 303 

Hi.  San  Silvestro 303 

IV.  Cardinal  Ippolito 304 

V.  Borgo  delle  Vergine  at  Naples 308 

Vi.  Vittoria  Colonna 310 

PART  SECOND. 

I.  Monologue 313 

H.  Viterbo 313 

in.  Michael  Angelo  and  Benvenuto  Cellini  314 

iv.  Fra  Sebastiano  del  Piombo 316 

V.  Michael  Angelo  and  Titian  :  Palazzo 

Belvedere 319 

VI.  Palazzo  Cesarini , 321 

PART  THIRD. 

I.  Monologue :  Macello  de'  Corvi 322 

ii.  Vigna  di  Papa  Giulio 322 

m.  Bindo  Altoviti 324 

IV.  In  the  Coliseum 325 

V.  Benvenuto  again :  Macello  de' Corvi. .  326 

Vi.  Urbino's  Fortune 329 

Vii.  The  Oaks  of  Monte  Luca 330 

VIH.  The  Dead  Christ 331 

NOTES 333 

INDEX 345 


POETICAL  WORKS 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


VOICES   OF  THE  FIGHT. 


HOTVIO.,  iroTvta  vtif  , 
inrvoSoreipa  riav  iro\vir&viav 
'Epe/360ec  Idf  n<j\e  /xdAe  Ka 
'  Ayojiiefij'dci.oi'  eTrlSo^ov 
virb  yap  J&ye<av,  VITTO  re  <rv/x 
" 


EUKIPIDBS. 


PLEASANT  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 

Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go ; 


Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 
The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 


And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 

Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound ; — 

A  slumberous  sound,  a  sound  that  bringe 

The  feelings  of  a  dream, 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 


12 


HYMN  TO  .THE  NIGHT.— A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 


And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea ; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  fancy  has  been  quelled ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 

And  bishop'  s-caps  have  golden  rings, 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"Come,  be  a  child  once  more  !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

Art  A  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  ; 

O,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar, — 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 
In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again, 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !     Stay,  O  stay ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
"It  cannot  be!     They  pass  away  ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 

"The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 

Watered  by  living  springs  ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 

Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings. 

' '  Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 

Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 
Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 


Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 
Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

"  Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  '  It  is  past ! 

We  can  return  no  more ! ' 

"  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write ! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
Al^solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright, — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

'A<rira<7i'r),  rpiAAtoros. 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there, — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O,  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  linger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace !  Peace  !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A  PSALM  OF   LIFE. 

WHAT   THE   HEART   OF    THE  YOUNG   MAN   SAID   TO 
THE    PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS.— FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 


13 


Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ' 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

THERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair  ?  "  saith  he ; 

"Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day ; 
;T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 
And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
O  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength  !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  hi  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

O  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 


14 


FLOWERS. 


With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me, 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 


Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I  but  remember  only 
Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died 


SPAKB  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 


Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above ; 

But  net  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 
Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self -same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  .soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 


These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Bverywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn ; 


Not  alone  in  Spring' IB  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  nature  stoop  to  drink ; 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY.— MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR.       Lf 


Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone  ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  child-like,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  \phen  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
Th    midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 


Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 
The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 

Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 
Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR 

YES,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 

Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 

The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 

Singing,  "Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  pray  !  " 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 
And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  a  king  ! 

Then  comes  the  t»ummer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy  !  his  last !     O,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low, 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  !  *' 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 
Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 

In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !  " 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm- wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 
Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

O  Soul !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  bVast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson ! 
Christe,  eleyson ! 


AN  APRIL  DAY.— AUTUMN.— WOODS  IN  WINTER. 


EARLIER  POEMS 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my  college  life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen. 
Some  have  found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be  successful.  Others  lead  a  vagabond  and  precarious  exist 
ence  in  the  corners  of  newspapers ;  or  have  changed  their  names  and,  run  away  to  seek  their  fortune  beyond  the 
sea.  I  say,  with  the  Bishop  of  Avranches  on  a  similar  occasion  :  "I  cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children  of 
mine,  which  I  have  neglected,  and  almost  exposed,  brought  from  their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely 
lodged,  in  order  to  go  forth  into  the  world  together  in  a  more  decorous  garb."] 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 

WHEN  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright 

forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-on  of  storms. 

Prom  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly -warbled  song 

Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 

The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  put,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 
Stand  the   gray  rocks,   and  trembling  shadows 

throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April !   many  a  thought 
IB  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


AUTUMN. 

WITH  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year  ! 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out : 
And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 


Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer. 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beach,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  Autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.     Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.     The  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
Prom  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  bluebird  sings, 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing  floor  the  busy  flail 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves, 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teach 

ings. 

He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  tear. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

WHEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale. 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 
Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springe 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd ; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 

I  hea    it  in  the  opening  year, 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS.— SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 


17 


O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 


HYMN    OF   THE   MORAVIAN   NWS    OF 
BETHLEHEM. 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKl'S  BANNER. 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 

Paint  light  on  the  cowled  head  ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"Take  thy  banner  !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it !  God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trjting  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

"  Take  thy  banner !     But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !     By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears. 
Spare  him  !  he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him  !  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 
2 


"Take  thy  banner  !  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 


The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud  ! 


SUNRISE  ON  THE    HILLS. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me ;  bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered 

lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  "flash, 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 


18 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY.— BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 


Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle 
broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  !     No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Natmre  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 


THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gen  tie  south-wind  blows  ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hflls  with  golden  scarf  ; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade  ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  end 

less  laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.      And  he«e, 

amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.      Hence  gifted 

bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks 

in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty  trees, 
In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world  ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature  ;  of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush  the 

clouds 

When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  tender  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 


Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees. 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  het 

cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath, 

[t  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 

As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 

[s  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 

Heard  in  the  still  night,   with   its    passionate 
cadence. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 

ON  sunny  elope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  eveniug  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down, 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 
Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 
In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 
An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 
By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyies  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief ;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


19 


TBANSLATIOJSTS. 


[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem,  flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth 


cising  his  great  virtues,  and  exhibiting  to  the  world  the  light  of  his  genius,  which  was  already  known  to  1 


He  was  mortally  wounded  in  a  skirmish  near  Canavete,  in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet,  Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  de  Santiago,  is  well 
known  in  Spanish  history  and  song.  He  died  in  1476  ;  according  to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of  Ucles ;  but,  accord 
ing  to  the  poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocaiia.  It  was  his  death  that  catted  forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary 

.1T..4-;. ,.,   r*f   +V*n  iTt~.Ti-nrfaT  "\f  <a  Yi»«inTm        Tn  t.h  f*  lancmacTp  nf    VMS  VllRt,nrian.    t4  Tlnn   .Torpw  IVfanrinnp    in  an  Alptyanh  OHo 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH. 

0  LET  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past — the  past, 
More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 
That  Hope  in  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  drefams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that's  told, 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave  ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 
There  all  are  equal ;  side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

1  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 
Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 
The  deathless  few ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise,  - 
The  Eternal  Truth,  the  Good  and  Wise, 
To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 
But  the  world  eomprehended  not 
His  deity. 


This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way, 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place, 
Life  is  the  running  of  the  race, 
We  reach  the  goal 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering  though! 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 

Yes,  the  glad  mesfcenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
The  Saviour  came  ; 
Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A  death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 
The  shapes  we  chase, 
Amid  a  world  of  treachery  ! 
They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  tha  eye, 
And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us,  chances  strange, 

Disastrous  accident,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate ; 

The  strongest  fall 

Tell  me,  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 
Ah,  where  are  they  ? 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts^ 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life's  first  stage  ; 
These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight, 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 
In  long  array ; 


20 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


How  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a  stain, 
Their  fathers  bore. 

* 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 
With  what  untimely  epeed  they  glide, 
How  soon  depart ! 

Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 
The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they, 
Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found  : 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 
And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 
Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust, 
They  fade  and  die ; 
But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 
They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 
Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ?  . 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  • 
And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power, 
What  ardor  show, 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 

Famous  in  history  and  in  song 

Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 

Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 

On  these  shall  fall 

As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 


I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 

Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 

Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 
Nor  how  they  rolled ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 
Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ?    Where 

Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Aragon? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 
And  nodding  plume, 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 
And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride ; 
O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside ! 

But  O  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts,  the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought. 

Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array, 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?  Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal ;  and  the  breath. 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years ; 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


21 


Judgment  of  God !  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable,  the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all ; 
Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride, 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 

His  villages  and  villas  fair, 

His  mighty  power, 

What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 

Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 

The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 
Their  underlings; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  f 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O  Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 
When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed ; 
High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade. 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep, 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 


Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 

To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 

As  Virtue's  son, 

Roderic  Manrique,  he  whose  name 

Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

Spain's  champion ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 

Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung  ? 

The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend ;  how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief ! 
To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a  chief  ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise : 

What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 

A  lion's  rage. 

His  was  Oetavian's  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Cassar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue  ;  his,  the  skill 

And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness,  his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine,\ 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 
Firm,  gentle,  still ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will ; 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command ; 
The  faith  of  Constantine  ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate ; 

He  fought  the  Moors,  and,  in  their  fall, 

City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A  common  grave ; 

And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 
That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 


22 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 


So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 
In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 
'T  was  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions,  than  before, 
His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
By  worth  adored, 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served ; 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 

Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 
Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock, 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 
With  sudden  call, 


oaring,    '  Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien ; 
Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armor  for  the  fray, 
The  closing  scene. 

"  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 

So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame, 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 

Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 

They  call  thy  name. 

"  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 

Too  terrible  for  man,  nor  fear 

To  meet  the  foe  ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 

On  earth  below. 

"  A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 

Has  no  eternity  on  earth, 

'T  is  but  a  name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 


' '  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate ; 
The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  great. 

"  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell, 

Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 

His  prayers  and  tears  ; 

And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 

Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 

His  standard  rears. 

' '  And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has  poured 

The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 

O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 

The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 

And  dauntless  hand. 

"Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 

Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 

Thou  dost  profesSj 

Depart,  thy  hope  is  certainty, 

The  third,  the  better  life  on  high 

Shalt  thou  possess." 

"  O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay ; 

My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 

And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be, 

I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 

To  God's  behest. 

"My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 

Breathes  forth  no  sigh ; 

The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 

Were  vain,  when  't  is  God's  sovereign  will 

That  we  shall  die. 

"  O  thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

"And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 
So  patiently ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
O,  pardon  me  !" 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind ; 
Encircled  by  his  family, 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  it,  rose  ; 

God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set, 

Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  radiant,  blest. 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

SHEPHERD  !  who  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed  me, 
Who  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree, 


TO-MORROW.— THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 


33 


On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so 

long ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains ; 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt 

be; 

I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all-beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 
Hear,    Shepherd !    thou  who    for  thy  flock  art 

dying, 

O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
O,  wait !  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, 
Wait  for  me !     Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou'rt  waiting 

still  for  me ! 


TO-MORROW. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

LORD,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 

O  strange  delusion  !  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet. 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

' '  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt 

see   - 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  !" 

And,  O  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 
And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered  still, 
"To-morrow." 


THE  NATIVE  LAND. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH   OF   FRANCISCO    DE   ALDANA. 

CLEAR  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  trhat  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 

There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath ; 
But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 
That,    whither   love    aspires,    there  shall    my 
dwelljpg  be. 


THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

O  LORD  !  who  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world   obscures    in  me   what    once    was 
bright ! 

Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given, 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  decays  ; 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 


Celestial  King !  O  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


THE  BROOK. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

LAUGH  of  the  mountain  ! — lyre  of  bird  and  tree 
Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn  ! 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee  ! 
Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 
The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's 

gaze. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  let  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles 

count! 

How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  cur 
rent  ! 

O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in 
limpid  fount! 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

FROM   DANTE.       PURGATORIO,  II. 

AND  now,  behold  !  as  at  the  approach  of  morn 
ing, 

Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows  fiery  red 

Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 
Appeared  to  me, — may  I  again  behold  it '. 

A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 

Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 
And  when  therefrom  1  had  withdrawn  a  little 

Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  conductor, 

Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 
Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 

I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath, 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 
My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 

While  the  first  whiteness  into  wings  unfolded  ; 

But,  when  he  clearly  recognized  the  pilot, 
Be  cried  aloud:    ''Quick,    quick,  and  bow  the 
knee  ! 

Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy  hands ! 

Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers ! 
See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant  shores ! 
See,   how  he  holds   them,    pointed    straight  to 
heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 

That  do    not    moult    themselves  like   mortal 

hair !" 
And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 

The   Bird   of    Heaven,   more  glorious  he  ap 
peared, 

So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 
But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 

With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 

So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught  thereof. 
Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 

Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 

And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 
"  lit.  exitu  Israel  de  ^Egypto  !  " 


24 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE.— THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 


Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 
With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 
Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FROM  DANTE.      PURGATORIO,    XXVIII. 

LONGING  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  tempered  to  the  eyes  the  new-born  day, 
Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country,  slowly,  slowly, 
Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fra 
grance. 

A  gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead, 
No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze, 
Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that 

side* 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Moun 
tain  ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 
But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes, 
Even    as   from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering 

swells, 
Through   the    pine    forests    on    the  shore  of 

Chiassi, 

When  ^Eolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 
Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  en 
tered. 
And  lo  !  my  further  course  cut  off  a  river, 

Which,  tow'rds  the  left  hand,  with  its  little 

waves, 

Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin  sprang 
All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 

Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some 

mixture,  s 

Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth  con 
ceal. 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown  cur 
rent, 

Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 
Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown 

up, 
And  down  descended  inside  and  without, 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 
Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 
Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 

And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
Whene'r  the  land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes. 
Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire, 

Even  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  forever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres ; 

But,  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 
"O  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume 

him?" 

j  The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed. 
To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish, 
Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from  my 
breast. 

Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 

Forced  such  a  feeble  "Yes  !  "  out  of  my  mouth, 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  't  is  discharged, 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the  bow, 
And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark ; 

So  I  gave  way  beneath  this  heavy  burden, 
Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs, 
And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.      PURGATORIO,  XXX.,  XXXI. 

EVEN  as  the  Blessed,  at  the  final  summons, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh, 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  lanti  senis, 
Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying,  "Henedictus  qui  venis," 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 
"Manibus  o  date  lilia  plenis." 

Oft  have  I  seen,  at  the  approach  of  day, 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues, 
And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun's  face  uprising,  overshadowed, 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors. 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while ; 


SPRING. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES  D'ORLEANS. 
XV.  CENTURY. 

GENTLE  Spring !  in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the 

rain  ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old, 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  arid  the  sky  grows  clear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

SWEET  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


THE  GRAVE.— KING  CHRISTIAN. 


25 


Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 
Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  al«ne  for  thee ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow ; 

His  eye  is  closed  ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm. 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm  ? 


Awake,  my  boy  !  I  tremble  with  affright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought !  Unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 

Sweet  error  !  he  but  slept,  I  breathe  again  ; 

Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile  I 
O,  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 

Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 


So  thou  shalt  in  mould,  dwell  full  cold 


THE  GRAVE. 

FROM   THE  ANGLO-SAXON. 

FOR  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born, 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 
It  is  unhigh  and  low  ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel- ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 


Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  lea  vest  thy  friends ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee ; 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee, 
And  descend  after  thee ; 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


KING   CHRISTIAN. 

A  NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK. 
FROM   THE   DANISH   OF   JOHANNES   EVALD. 

KING  CHRISTIAN  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 

"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "fly,  he  who  can  I 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ?  " 


26 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. —THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 


Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"Now  is  the  hour  !  " 

"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  u  for  shelter  fly  !  " 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power  ?  " 

North  Sea !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail,  that  rent 

•    Thy  murky  sky  ! 
From  Denmark,  thunders  Tordenskiol', 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly  ! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave ! 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

THERE  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 

By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 
Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 

And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But,  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 

' '  Long  live  the  Swabian  land  ! 

' '  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 

And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

"  Ha !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, 
And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine ; 

"  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 
Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thin» ! 

"  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  fingers  on  this  hand  !  " 

' '  Hold  your  tongues !  both  Swabian  and  Saxon ! " 
A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
If  there's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 
In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

"  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 

Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 
And  said :  "Ye  may  no  more  contend, — 

There  lies  the  happiest  land !  " 


THE  WAVE. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN   OF   TIEDGE. 

"WHITHER,  thou  turbid  wave? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ?  " 

^  "I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  Sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


THE  DEAD. 

PROM   THE   GERMAN  OF   STOCKMANN. 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  they  the  holy  ones, 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 
How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking ! 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 
Here,  where  all  gladness  flies ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o'ershadowed, 
Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber  ! 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 

"  THE  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 
The  winds  behind  them  merrily 

Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

"  The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 
And  everything,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 

Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

"I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat !     Whither,  or  whence. 

With  thy  fluttering  golden  band '?  " — 
"  I  greet  thee,  little  bird  !     To  the  wide  sea 

I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

"Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale. 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still 

"And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall. 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 

With  merry  companions  all."— 

"  I  need  not  and  seek  not  company, 

Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone ; 
For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 

Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 


WHITHER.— THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 


"  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys? 
When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

' '  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  bless  them  every  one  ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

"  Thus  do  I  sing  my  weary  song, 

Wherever  the  four  winds  blow ; 
And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 

Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know." 


WHITHER? 

FROM   THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLEB. 

I  HEARD  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 

So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 
But  I  must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

Tn  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE  ! 

FROM    THE   GERMAN. 

I  KNOW  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care  ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 

Beware  !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  tru«, 

Beware !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 

Beware !     Beware  I 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair, 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

BELL  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie ! 

bell !  thou  soundest  merrily ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully, 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  ! 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

"HAST  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 

In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

' '  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  V  " 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly, 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT.—  L'ENVOI. 


"  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

''  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  " 

"  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 

No  maiden  was  by  their  side  !  " 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

'T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness, 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake 
"  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls. 

A  luxuriant  Spring  shall  break  " 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly, 

Prom  balcony  the  King  looked  on  ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers. 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  Knight. 

"Sir  Knight!    your  name  and    scutcheon, 

say !" 

"  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 

I  am  a  Prince  of  mighty  sway  !  " 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock  ; 
At  the  first  blow, 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances ; 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin. 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around  ; 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame ; 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  !  " 
The  children  drank. 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  : 

"  O,  that  draught  w»s  very  cool ! " 


Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter  ;  and  their  faces 

Colorless  grow  utterly ; 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  !  " 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 

"  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  ! " 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN   OF   SALI8. 

INTO  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  O  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning  visions 

Of  beauteous   souls  !      The  Future  s  pledge  and 

band  ! 

Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

To  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


L'  ENVOI. 

YE  voices,  that  arose 

After  the  Evening's  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose  ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  "  Be  of  good  cheer  !  " 

Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 

Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel's  psalm ! 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost. 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 
Amid  the  chills  and  damps 
Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  ! 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 


BALLADS  AKD  OTHEB  POEMS. 


Round  Tower  at  Newport. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  SPEAK  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dosfc  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ; 

For  this  1  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half -frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound, 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 


"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led  ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped. 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  or  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid. 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast. 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory  ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 


80 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 


"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

' '  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 


' '  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel  ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 


The  skipper  be  stood  beside  the  helm. 


WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 


31 


' '  Still  grew  my  bosom  then. 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Pell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful ! 


"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul. 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland  !  skoal/" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


At  daybreak,  011  the  bleak 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS, 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  : 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy -flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside 'the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

Tlie  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
41 1  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  !  " 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frightened  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast.  ' 


"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
u  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  " — 

And  he  steered  for  ths  open  sea. 

u  O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  V  " 
''  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 
In  such  an  angry  sea  !" 

"  O  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  "i  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wav«^ 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  Reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bowi, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 


32 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL.— THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 


Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on- the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form,  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Wee  I 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

OF  EdenhaU,  the  youthful  Lord 

Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  'mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 

"Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 
The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking  glass  of  crystal  tall ; 
They  call  it  The  Luck  of  EdenhaU. 

Then  said  the  Lord  :   "  This  glass  to  praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal !  " 

The  graybeard  with  trembling  hand  obeys ; 

A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light : 
"This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farewell  then,  0  Luck  of  EdenhaU  ! 

"'T  was  right  a  goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 
Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling  !  klang  !  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale ; 
Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild ; 
Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might, 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right ; 

Kling  !  klang !  —  with  a  harder  blow  than  all 

Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  EdenhaU  !  " 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 
And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start ; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword ; 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall, 
Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 


On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  graybeard  in  the  desert  hall, 
He  seeks  his  Lord's  burnt  skeleton, 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  EdenhaU. 

"  The  stone  wall,"  saith  he,  "  doth  faU  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  f aU ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride ; 
In  atoms  shall  faU  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 

FROM   THE   DANISH. 

SIR  OLUF  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide, 
But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the  man 

A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hillside 

A  Knight  full  weU  equipped 
His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred  ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 

Twelve  little  golden  birds  ; 
Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang, 

And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels ; 
Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew, 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 
And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 

It  made  Sir  Oluf 's  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm 

A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 
And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down ; 

"Art  them  Christ  of  Heaven,"  quoth  he, 
"So  wiU  I  yield  me  unto  thee." 

"I  am  not  Christ  the  Great, 

Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 
I  am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight," 

"  Art  thou  a  Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight ; 
So  shalt  thou  ride  a  tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens'  honor  !" 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  proved  their  manhood  best, 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 

Neither  of  them  would  yield ; 
The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 


33 


THE  CHILDBED  OF  THE  LOED'S  SUPPER 


FROM   THE   SWEDISH   OF   BISHOP   TEGNEK. 


PENTECOST,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.      The 

church  of  the  village 
Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning's  sheen.     On  the 

spire  of  the  belfry, 
Decked  with  a  brazen  cock,  the  friendly  flames 

of  the  Spring-sun 

Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by  Apos 
tles  aforetime. 
Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with  her 

cap  crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the 

wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured    gladness    and    peace,    God's-peace ! 

with  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry  on 

balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant  hymn  to 

the  Highest. 
Swept  and  clean  was  the  churchyard.     Adorned 

like  a  leaf -woven  arbor 
Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate  ;    and  within  upon 

each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a  fragrant  garland,  new  twined  by  the 

hands  of  affection. 
Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a  mound  among  the 

departed, 
(There  full  a  hundred  years  had  it  stood),  was 

embellished  with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoar.y,  the  sage  of  his  kith 

and  the  hamlet, 
'iVho  on  his  birthday  is  crowned  by  children  and 

children's  children, 
So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with  his 

pencil  of  iron 
Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured  the 

time  and  its  changes, 

While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slum 
bered  in  quiet. 
Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this  was 

the  season 
When  the  young,  their  parents'  hope,   and  the 

loved-ones  of  heaven, 
Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows  of 

their  baptism. 
Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept  and 

cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the 

oil-painted  benches. 
There  stood  the  church  like  a  garden  ;  the  Feast 

of  the  Lsafy  Pavilions 
Saw  we  in  living  presentment.     From  noble  arms 

on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a  cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preacher's 

pulpit  of  oak-wood 

Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod  be 
fore  Aaron. 
Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves,  and 

the  dove,  washed  with  silver, 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a  necklace  : 

of  wind-flowers. 
But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece 

painted  by  Horberg, 
Crept   a    garland   gigantic ;    and    bright-curling 

tresses  of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a  cloud,  from  out  of 

the  shadowy  leaf -work. 
Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished,  blinked 

from  the  ceiling, 
And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set 

in  the  sockets. 
3 


Loud  rang  the   bells  already ;    the   thronging 
crowd  was  assembled 

Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy 
preaching. 

Hark  !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones 
of  the  organ, 

Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invisible 
spirits. 

Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  from  off 
him  his  mantle, 

So  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth  ;  and 
with  one  voice 

Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem 
immortal 

Of  the  subiime  Wallin,  of  David's  harp  in  the 
North-land 

Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther  ;  the  song  on  its 
mighty  pinions 

Took  every  livingsoul,andlifted  it  gently  to  heaven 

And  each  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One's  face 
upon  Tabor. 

Lo  !  there  entered  then  into  the  church  the  Rev 
erend  Teacher. 

Father  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish ;  a 
Christianly  plainness 

Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of 
seventy  winters. 

Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  herald 
ing  angel 

Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a  contem 
plative  grandeur 

Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear  as  on  moss-covered 
gravestone  a  sunbeam. 

As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight  that 
faintly 

Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the 
day  of  creation) 

Th'  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines  Saint 
John  when  in  Patmos, 

Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed 
then  the  old  man  ; 

Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were  his 
tresses  of  silver. 

All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were 
numbered. 

But  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the 
left  hand,  the  old  man 

Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in  the  in 
nermost  chancel. 

Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Chris 
tian  service, 

Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent  dis 
course  from  the  old  man. 

Many  a  moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of 
the  heart  came, 

Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna  on 
those  in  the  desert. 

Then,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher  re- 
entered  the  chancel, 

Followed  therein  by  the  young.  The  boys  on  the 
right  had  their  places, 

Delicate  figures,  with  close-curling  hair  and 
cheeks  rosy-blooming. 

But  on  the  left  of  these  there  stood  the  tremulous 
lilies. 

Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  dawn,  the 
diffident  maidens, — 

Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast 
down  on  the  pavement. 


34 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 


Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  cate 
chism.  In  the  beginning 

Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  falter 
ing  voice,  but  the  old  man's 

Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and 
the  doctrines  eternal 

Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear  from 
lips  unpolluted. 

Each  time  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as 
they  named  the  Redeemer, 

Lowly  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  all 
courtesied. 

Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light 
there  among  them, 

And  to  the  children  explained  the  holy,  the  high 
est,  in  few  words, 

Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublimity 
always  is  simple, 

Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a  child  can  seize  on  its 
meaning. 

E'en  as  the  green-growing  bud  unfolds  when 
Springtide  approaches, 

Leaf  by  leaf  puts  forth,  and  warmed,  by  the 
radiant  sunshine, 

Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  per 
fected  blossom 

Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its 
crown  in  the  breezes, 

So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  salva 
tion. 

Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.  The 
fathers  and  mothers 

Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at  the 
well-worded  answer. 

Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar ; — and 

straightway  transfigured 
(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affectionate 

Teacher. 
Like  the  Lord's  Prophet  sublime,  and  awful  as 

Death  and  as  Judgment 

Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul-search 
er,  earthward  descending. 
Glances,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearts  that  to  him 

•were  transparent 
Shot  he;  his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like  the 

thunder  afar  off. 
So  on  a  sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there,   he 

spake  and  he  questioned. 

"This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith  the 

Apostles  delivered, 
This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I  baptized 

you,  while  still  ye 

Lay  on  your  mother's  breasts,  and  nearer  the  port 
als  of  heaven. 
Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy  Church  in 

its  bosom ; 
Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in 

its  radiant  splendor 
Downward  rains  from  the  heaven  ; — to-day  on  the 

threshold  of  childhood 
Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and  make 

your  election 
For  she  knows  naught  of  compulsion,  and  only 

conviction  desireth. 
This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point 

of  existence, 
Seed  for  the  coming  days ;  without  revocation 

departeth 
Now  from  your  lips  the  confession ;  Bethink  ye, 

before  ye  make  answer  ! 
Think  not,  O  think  not  with  guile  to  deceive  the 

questioning  Teacher. 
Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  curse   ever  rests 

upon  falsehood. 

Enter  not  with  a  lie  on  Life's  journey  ;  the  multi 
tude  hears  you, 
Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear  upon 

earth  is  and  holy 


Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a  witness  ;  the 
Judge  everlasting 

Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and  angels  in 
waiting  beside  him 

Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire  upon  tab 
lets  eternal. 

Thus,  then, — believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father 
who  this  world  created  ? 

Him  who  redeemed  it,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit 
where  both  are  united  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  (a  holy  promise  J)  to 
cherish 

God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man 
as  a  brother  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith 
by  your  living, 

Th'  heavenly  faith  of  affection !  to  hope,  to  for 
give,  and  to  suffer, 

Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before 
God  in  uprightness  V 

Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and  man  ?" — 
With  a  clear  vcice 

Answered  the  young  men  Yes  !  and  Yes  !  with 
lips  softly-breathing 

Answered  the  maidens  eke.  Then  dissolved  from 
the  brow  of  the  Teacher 

Clouds  with  the  lightnings  therein,  and  he  spake 
in  accents  more  gentle, 

Soft  as  the  evening's  breath ;  as  harps  by  Baby 
lon's  rivers. 

"Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all !     To  the  heirdom 

of  heaven  be  ye  welcome  ! 
Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  covenant 

brothers  and  sisters  ! 
Yet, — for  what  reason  not  children  ?     Of  such  is 

the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children,    in 

heaven  one  Father, 
Ruling  them  all  as  his  household, — forgiving  in 

turn  and  chastising, 
That  is  of  human  life  a  picture,  as  Scripture  has 

taught  us. 
Blest  are  the  pure  before  God  !     Upon  purity  and 

upon  virtue 
Resteth  the  Christian  Faith  ;  she  herself  from  on 

high  is  descended. 
Strong  as  a  man  and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the  sum 

of  the  doctrine, 
Which  the  Divine  One  taught,  and  suffered  and 

died  on  the  cross  for. 
O,  as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood's  sacred 

asylum 
Downward    and  ever  downward,  and   deeper  in 

Age's  chill  valley, 
O,  how  soon  will  ye  come, — too  soon  ! — and  long 

to  turn  backward 
Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined, 

where  Judgment 
Stood  like  a  father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad 

like  a  mother, 
Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart 

was  forgiven, 
Life  was  a  play  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the 

roses  of  heaven  ! 
Seventy  years  have  I  lived  already  ;   the  Father 

eternal 
Gave  me  gladness  and   care;   but   the  loveliest 

hours  of  existence, 
When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I 

have  instantly  known  them, 

Known  them  all  again; — they  were  my  child 
hood's  acquaintance. 
Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in  the 

paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  Inno 
cence,  bride  of  man's  childhood. 
Innocence,    child  beloved,    is  a  guest  from   the 

world  of  the  blessed, 

Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lily  ;  on  life's  roar 
ing  billows 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 


35 


Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not,  in  the 
ship  she  is  sleeping. 

Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ; 
in  the  desert 

Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her  ;  she  her 
self  knoweth 

Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance  ;  but  follows 
faithful  and  humble, 

Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend ;  O  do  not 
reject  her, 

For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth  the 
keys  of  the  heavens.  — 

Prayer  is  Innocence'  friend ;  and  willingly  flieth 
incessant 

'Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon 
of  heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile, 
the  Spirit 

Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles  like 
flame  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  Father's  mani 
fold  mansions, 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blos 
somed  more  freshly  the  flowerets, 

Shone  a  more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with 
the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close  ;  and 
homesick  for  heaven 

Longs  the  wanderer  again  ;  and  the  Spirit's  long 
ings  are  worship ; 

Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,  and  its 
tongue  is  entreaty. 

Ah  !  when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descendeth 
upon  us, 

Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth, 
in  the  graveyard, 

Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ;  for  his  sorrow 
ing  children 

Turns  he  ne'er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals  and 
helps  and  consoles  them. 

Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  pros 
perous  with  us, 

Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life's  most  beautiful 
Fortune 

Kneels  before  the  Eternal's  throne ;  and  with 
hands  interfolded, 

Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver  of 
blessings, 

Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that 
comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 

What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor !  that  it  has 
not  received  ? 

Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray !  The 
seraphs  adoring 

Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of 
him  who 

Hung  his  masonry  pendant  on  naught,  when  the 
world  he  created. 

Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament 
utters  his  glory. 

Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  downward 
from  heaven, 

Downward  like  withered  leaves  ;  at  the  last  stroke 
of  midnight,  millenniums 

Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  he  sees 
them,  but  counts  them  as  nothing. 

Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ?  The  wrath  of 
the  judge  is  terrific. 

Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a  glance.  When  he 
speaks  in  his  anger 

Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap 
like  the  roebuck. 

Yet, — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children  ?  This  aw 
ful  avenger. 

Ah  !  is  a  merciful  God  !  God's  voice  was  not  in 
the  earthquake, 

Not  in  the  fire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the 
whispering  breezes. 

Love  is  the  root  of  creation ;  God's  essence  ; 
worlds  without  number 


Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children  ;  he  made  them  for 

this  purpose  only. 
Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed 

forth  his  spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing, 

it  laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a 

flame  out  of  heaven. 
Quench,    O  quench  not  that  flame  !     It  is  the 

breath  of  your  being. 
Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.    Not  father,  nor 

mother 
Loved  you,  as  God  has  loved  you  ;  for  't  was  that 

you  may  be  happy 
Gave  he  his  only  Son .     When  he  bowed  down  his 

head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ;    the  sacrifice  then 

was  completed. 

Lo  !  then  was  rent  on  a  sudden  the  veil  of  the  tem 
ple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their 

sepulchres  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ears  of 

each  other 
Th'  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation's 

enigma, — Atonement  ! 
Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement's  depths,  for  Love 

is  Atonement. 
Therefore,    child    of    mortality    love    thou    the 

merciful  Father  ; 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from 

fear,  but  affection ; 
Fear  is   the  virtue  of  slaves  ;  but  the  heart  that 

loveth  is  willing ; 
Perfect   was    before  God,  and  perfect  is   Love, 

and  Love  only. 
Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest 

thou  likewise  thy  brethren  ; 
One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is 

Love  also. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp 

on  his  forehead  ? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ?    Is  he 

not  sailing 
Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is  he 

not  guided 
By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ?  Why  shouldst 

thou  hate  then  thy  brother  ? 

Hateth  he  thee,  forgive  !    Fpr  't  is  sweet  to  stam 
mer  one  letter 
Of  the  Eternal's  language ; — on  earth  it  is  called 

Forgiveness  ! 
Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the  crown 

of  thorns  on  his  temples  ? 
Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murderers  ? 

Say,  dost  thou  know  him  '? 
Ah  !  thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise 

his  example, 
Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  veil  over 

his  failings, 

Guide  the  erring  aright ;    for  the  good,  the  heav 
enly  shepherd 
Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back 

to  its  mother. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  f  ruil« 

that  we  know  it . 
Love  is  the   creature's   welfare  with  God;    bit 

Love  among  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !    He  longs,  and  endures, 

and  stands  waiting. 
Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on 

his  eyelids. 
Hope, — so  is  called  upon  earth,  his  recompense, — 

Hope,  the  befriending, 
Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up  to 

heaven,  and  faithful 
Plunges  her  anchor's  peak  in  the  depths  of  the 

grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim,  but  a  sweet 

play  of  shadows ! 


86 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 


Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  waver 
ing  promise, 
Having  naught  else  but  Hope.     Then  praise  we 

our  Father  in  heaven, 
Him,  who  has  given  us  more ;  for  to  us  has  Hope 

been  transfigured, 
Groping  no  longer  in  night ;    she  is  Faith,  she  is 

living  assurance. 
Faith  is  enlightened  Hope ;  she  is  light,  is  the  eye 

of  affection, 
Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,    and  carves 

their  visions  in  marble. 
Faith  is  the  sun  of  life ;    and  her  countenance 

shines  like  the  Hebrew's, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God;   the  heaven  on  its 

stable  foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the 

New  Jerusalem  sinketh 
Splendid  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  vapors 

descending. 
There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the 

figures  majestic, 
Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them 

all  is  her  homestead. 
Therefore  love  and  believe ;  for  works  will  follow 

spontaneous 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ;    the  Right  from  the 

Good  is  an  offspring, 
Love  in  a  bodily  shape  ;  and  Christian  works  are 

no  more  than 

Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  ani 
mate  Springtide. 
Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God ;    there  stand 

and  bear  witness 
Not    what  they  seemed, — but  what  they  were 

only.     Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears   their   confession  secure ;    they  are  mute 

upon  earth  until  death's  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the   silent.     Ye   children, 

does  Death  e'er  alarm  you  ? 
Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is  he, 

and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.     With  a  kiss  upon  lips 

that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and,  rocked  in  the 

arms  of  affection. 
Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  'fore  the 

face  of  its  father. 
Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I  hear, — see  dimly 

his  pinions. 
Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon 

them !     I  fear  not  before  him. 
Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute.     On 

his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast;   and 

face  to  face  standing 

Look  I  on  God  as  he  is,  a  sun  unpolluted  by  vapors ; 
Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I  loved,  the  spirits 

majestic. 
Nobler,  better  than  I ;  they  stand  by  the  throne 

all  transfigured. 
Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are 

singing  an  anthem, 
Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  language 

spoken  by  angels. 
You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved,  he  one 

day  shall  gather, 
Never  forgets  he  the  weary  ; — then  welcome,  ye 

loved  ones,  hereafter  ! 

Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  for 
get  not  the  promise, 
Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness  ;  earth 

shall  ye  heed  not ; 
Earth   is  but  dust  and  heaven  is  light ;    I  have 

pledged  you  to  heaven. 
God  of  the  universe,  hear  me  !  thou  fountain  of 

Love  everlasting, 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant !     I  send  up  my 

prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit 

of  all  these, 


Whom,  thou  hast  given  me  here  !     I  have   loved 

them  all  like  a  father. 
May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I  taught 

them  the  way  of  salvation, 
Faithful,  so  far  as  I  knew,  of  thy  word  ;   again 

may  they  know  me, 
Fall  on  their  Teacher's  breast,  and  before  thy 

face  may  I  place  them, 
Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried,  and 

exclaiming  with  gladness, 
Father,  lo !    I  am  here,   and  the  children,  whom 

thou  hast  given  me  !" 

Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words ;  and  now  at 
the  beck  of  the  old  man 

Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a  wreath  round 
the  altar's  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  con 
secration,  and  softly 

With  him  the  children  read ;  at  the  close,  with 
tremulous  accents, 

Asked  he  the  peace  of  Heaven,  a  benediction 
upon  them. 

Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day  ;  the 
following  Sunday 

Was  for  the  young  appointed  to  eat  of  the  Lord's 
holy  Supper. 

Sudden,  as  struck .  from  the  clouds,  stood  the 
Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 

Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward ; 
while  thoughts  high  and  holy 

Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his  eyes 
glanced  with  wonderful  brightness. 

"On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows  !  perhaps  I 
shall  rest  in  the  graveyard  ! 

Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a  lily  broken  un 
timely, 

Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ;  why  delay  I  ? 
the  hour  is  accomplished. 

Warm  is  the  heart ; — I  will !  for  to-day  grows 
the  harvest  of  heaven. 

What  I  began  accomplish  I  now  ;  what  failing 
therein  is 

I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  rever 
end  father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new- 
come  in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 
Atonement  ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I  have 
told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  symbol  it  is,  of  Atonement 
a  token, 

'Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man  by 
his  sins  and  transgressions 

Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essence. 
'T  was  in  the  beginning 

Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it 
hangs  its  crown  o'er  the 

Fall  to  this  day ;  in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall ;  in 
the  Heart  the  Atonement. 

Infinite  is  the  fall, — the  Atonement  infinite  like 
wise. 

See !  behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remem 
bers,  and  forward, 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her 
wearied  pinions. 

Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the  life 
time  of  mortals. 

Sin  is  brought  forth  full-grown ;  but  Atonement 
sleeps  in  our  bosoms 

Still  as  the  cradled  babe  ;  and  dreams  of  heaven 
and  of  angels, 

Cannot  awake  to  sensation  ;  is  like  the  tones  in 
the  harp's  strings, 

Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  de 
liverer's  finger. 

Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the 
Prince  of  Atonement, 

Woke  the  sltimberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands 
now  with  eyes  all  resplendent, 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


37 


Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles  with 

Sin  and  o'ercomes  her. 
Downward  to  earth  he  came,  and,  transfigured, 

thence  reascended, 
Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  he  still 

lives  in  the  Spirit, 
Loves  and  atones  evermore.     So  long  as  Time  is, 

is  Atonement. 
Therefore  with  reverence  take  this  day  her  visible 

token. 
Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  live  not.    The  light 

everlasting 
Unto  the  blind  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the  eye  that 

has  vision. 
Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart 

that  is  hallowed 
Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ;  the  intention  alone 

of  amendment 
Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things, 

and  removes  all 
Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.     Only  Love  with  his 

arms  wide  extended, 
Penitence  weeping  and  praying ;  the  Will  that  is 

tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 

Purified  forth  from  the  flames  ;  in  a  word,  man 
kind  by  Atonement 

Breaketh  Atonement's  bread,  and  drinketh  Atone 
ment's  wine-cup. 
But  he  who  cometh  up  hither,  unworthy,    with 

hate  in  his  bosom, 
Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of  Christ's 

blessed  body, 
And  the  Redeemer's  blood  !     To  himself  he  eat- 

eth  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom !     And  from  this,  preserve  us, 

thou  heavenly  Father  ! 
Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 

Atonement  ?" 

Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together  an 
swered  the  children, 
"Yes!"  with  deep  sobs  interrupted.     Then  read 

he  the  due  supplications, 


Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed 

the  organ  and  anthem  : 
"O  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our 

transgressions, 
Hear  us !  give  us  thy  peace  !  have  mercy,  have 

mercy  upon  us  !" 
Th'  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heavenly 

pearls  on  his  eyelids, 
Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round 

the  mystical  symbols. 
O,   then   seemed  it  to  me  as  if  God,  with  the 

broad  eye  of  midday, 
Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,   and  all  the 

trees  in  the  churchyard 
Bowed  down   their   summits  of  green,  and  th 

grass  on  the  graves  'gan  to  shiver. 
But  in  the  children  (I  noted  it  well ;  I  knew  it) 

there  ran  a 

Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their  ice- 
cold  members. 
Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood  the 

green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before  Stephen ; 

they  saw  there 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,    and  on  his  right 

hand  the  Redeemer. 
Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harpstrings, 

and  angels  from  gold  clouds 
Beckon  to  them  like  brothers  and  fan  with  their 

pinions  of  purple. 


Closed  was  the  Teacher's  task,  and  with  heaven 

in  their  hearts  and  their  faces, 
Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him, 

weeping  full  sorely, 
Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but  all  of 

them  pressed  he 
Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a  prayer,  his 

hands  full  of  blessings, 
Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  innocent 

tresses. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 


He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more. 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


38 


ENDYMION.— THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 


And  thildreu  coming  home  from  school. 


ENDYMION. 

•fHE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars ; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity, — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

O  weary  hearts  !  O  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again ! 


No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds, — as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?" 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PFIZER. 

A  YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 
I  wander  through  the  world  ; 

Here  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I  dream,  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 

I  wake  !    Away  that  dream, —  away ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ; 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY.— TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 


39 


But  now  the  dream,  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see  ; 
And  wunder  through  the  world  once  more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks  —  and  they  are  wondrous  fair  — 

Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 
The  brown  ia  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red ; 
A.nd  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

No  hay  pajaros  en  los  nidos  do  antano. 

Spanish  Proverb. 

THE  sun  is  bright, —  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  bluebird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 

It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 
Where  waiting  till  the  west- wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new  ;  — the  buds,  the  leaves, 

That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 
fc.nd  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves ; — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  O,  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD'S-ACRE. 

I  LIKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's- Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 
In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaft'  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on 
earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the 
sod, 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow  ; 
This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow  ! 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 

RIVER  !  that  in  silence  windest 
Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 

Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River  ! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver  ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 
When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 


40 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS.— MAIDENHOOD. 


'T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 

BLIND  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 

Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ;  —  he  hears  a  breath 

Say,  "  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  !  " 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

'ITJCTOU,  e\er)tr6v  /xe  .' 

The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 
But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  "  He  calleth  thee  !  " 


Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  "  What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  ?  " 
And  he  replies,  ltO  give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight." 
And  Jesus  answers^Yira-ye- 

"H  7Tt'(TTI.S  CTOV   (7€<7(OKe  <T«  .' 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 
In  darkness  and  in  misery, 
Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 

'IrjcroO,  f\eT)<r6v  fie  .' 


'H 


i,  eyeipai,  viraye  ! 
rit  <7ou  creVioKc  <re  / 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 

FILLED  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers, — no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength  and  fearless  mood ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 


And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light, — for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

O  suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 

0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried  ! 

1  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf  ! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm, — the  struggle, — the  relief, 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ! 

O,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands, — Life  hath  snares  ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ; — 
Age,  the  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 


MAIDENHOOD. 


Standing,  with  reluctant  feet,  where  the  brook  and  river  meet. 


Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth 


O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart. 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay. 


EXCELSIOR.— THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM. 


EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !  " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 


rest 


"O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "and 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 


"Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 


A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half -buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 


There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior  ! 


POEMS  CXN"  SLAVERY. 


TO  WILLIAM  E.  CHANGING. 

THE  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

' '  Servant  of  God  !  well  done  ! " 

Well  done !  Thy  words  are  great  and  bold  ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me, 
Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Half -battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 

Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 
Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 

To  John  in  Patmos,  "  Write  !" 

Write  !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 
This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse  ! 


THE  SLAVE'S   DREAM. 

BESIDE  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 


Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode  ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain-road. 


He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand ! — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 


And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 


Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 


At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 


THE  GOOD  PART. -THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 


The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud. 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 


He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  'Land  of  Sleep 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 


And  then  at  furious  cr>eed  he  rode. 


THE  GOOD  PART, 

THAT   SHALL   NOT   BE   TAKEN    AWAY. 

SHE  dwells  by  Great  Kanawha's  side, 

In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 
And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 

Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 

That  robes  the  hills  above. 
Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 

All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes  ; 

Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 

Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 
To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside 

And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free  ; 

And  musical,  as  silver-bells, 
Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty. 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 


Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE    SLAVE    IN   THE    DISMAL   SWAMP, 

IN  d«rk  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 

And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'-the-wisps  and  glow-worms  shine 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine. 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 
On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT.— THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 


All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth  ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth  ! 


THE   SLAVE    SINGING    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

LOUD  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David ! 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of  Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 
Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen, 
And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas  !  what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night  ? 


THE  WITNESSES. 

IN  Ocean's  wide  domains, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 
Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 

Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 
Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 

No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves  ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

"We  are  the  Witnesses  !  " 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 

In  deserts  makes  its  prey  ; 
Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  school-boys  from  their  play  ! 


All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride  ; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide  ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves  ; 
.    They  glare  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 
"We  are  the  Witnesses!" 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 

THE  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 

Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 
He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 

And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 

And  all  her  listless  crew 
Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 

Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow ; 

The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  ' '  My  ship  at  anchor  rides 

In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 
I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon." 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 

Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare ; 
No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  bright, 

Aid  her  own  long,  raven  hair 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 
As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

"  The  soil  is  barren, — the  farm  is  old  ;" 

The  thoughtful  planter  said  ; 
Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver's  gold, 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains  : 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 
Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's  cheek, 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land  ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


45 


THE  WARNING. 

BEWARE  !  The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path,  • — •  when,  poor  and  blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more, 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to  grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 

A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry,  — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 
Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who  made 


A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 
The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all, 
Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 


There  is  a  poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength  and  bound  in  bonds  o{ 
steel, 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand. 
Arid  sliake  the  pillars  of  this  Common-weal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 

A  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THE    SPANISH   STUDENT. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

VICTORIAN  ) 

HYPOLITO   j  Students  of  Alcala. 


Gentlemen  of  Madrid. 


THE  COONT   OF  LAKA  ) 
DON  CARLOS  (" 

THE  AKCHBISHOP  OF  TOLEDO. 
A  CARDINAL. 

BELTRAN  CRDZADO.  Count  of  the  Gypsies. 

BARTOLOME  ROMAN A  young  Gypsy. 

THE  PADRE  CURA  OF  GUADARRAMA. 

PEDRO  CRESPO  .     Alcalde. 


PANCHO 

FRANCISCO 

CHISPA 

BALTASAR 

PRECIOSA 

ANGELICA 

MARTINA 

DOLORES 


Alguacil. 
Lard's  Servant. 
Victorian's  Servant. 
Innkeeper. 
A  Gypsy  Girl. 
A  poor  Girl. 

The  Padre  Cura's  Niece. 
Preciosa's  Maid. 


Gypsies,  Musicians, 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  COUNT  OF    LARA'S   chambers. 

Night.        The  COUNT  in  his  dressing-gown, 

smoking  and  conversing  with  DON  CARLOS. 

Lara.     You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night,  Don 

Carlos ; 
How  happened  it  ? 

Don  C.     I  had  engagements  elsewhere. 
Pray  who  was  there  ? 

Lara.     Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 
The  house  was  crowded  ;  and  the  busy  fans 
Among  the  gayly  dressed  and  perfumed  ladies 
Fluttered  like  butterflies  among  the  flowers. 
There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Cell ; 
The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lover, 
Her  Lindo  Don  Diego  ;  Dona  Sol, 
And  Dona  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 

Don  C.     What  was  the  play  ? 

Lara.  It  was  a  dull  affair  ; 

One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see, 
As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  Day  of  Judg 
ment. 

There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first  act, 
Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds, 
Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  saying, 
"  O,  I  am  dead  !  "  a  lover  in  a  closet, 
An  old  hidalgo,  and  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
A  Dona  Inez  with  a  black  mantilla, 
Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover, 
Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is  not ! 

Don    C.     Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced  to 
night  ? 

Lara.     And  never  better.     Every  footstep  fell 
As  lightly  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water. 
I  think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Don    C.     Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of  wo 
man ! 


I  saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 

Her  step  was  royal, — queen-like, — and  her  face 

As  beautiful  as  a  saint's  in  Paradise. 

Lara.     May  not  a  saint  fall  from  her  Paradise, 
And  be  no  more  a  saint  ? 

Don    C.  Why  dp  yon  ask  ? 

Lara.     Because  I  have  heard  it  said  this  angel 

fell, 

And  though  she  is  a  virgin  outwardly 
Within  she  is  a  sinner  ;  like  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 
On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus  ! 

Don    C.     You  do  her  wrong ;  indeed,   you  do 

her  wrong ! 
She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

Lara.     How  credulous  you  are !      Why   look 

you,  friend, 

There's  not  a  virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 
In  this  whole   city !     And   would  you  persuade 

me 

That  a  mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows  herself, 
Nightly,  half -naked,  on  the  stage,  for  money, 
And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the  blood 
Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A  model  for  her  virtue  ? 

Don    C.  You  forget 

She  is  a  Gypsy  girl. 

Lara.  And  therefore  won 

The  easier. 

Don    C.  Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all ! 

The  only  virtue  that  a  Gypsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.     That  is  her  only  virtue. 
Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it.      I  remember 
A  Gypsy  woman,  a  vile,  shameless  bawd. 
Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  yonng  and  fair ; 
And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 
And  when  a  noble  lord,  touched  by  her  beauty, 
The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 


46 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Offered  her  gold  to  be  what  she  made  others, 
She  turned  upon  him,  with  a  look  of  scorn, 
And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 

Lara.  And  does  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  ? 

Don    C.  It  proves  a  nobleman  may  be  repulsed, 
When  he  thinks  conquest  easy.     I  believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 
Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 
'  Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  nature, 
And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial  light ! 

Lara.      Yet   Preciosa  would  have   taken   the 
gold. 

Don    C.  (rising).     I  do  not  think  so. 

Lara.  I  am  sure  of  it. 

But  why  this  haste  ?    Stay  yet  a  little  longer. 
And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

Don  C.  'T  is  late.  I  must  begone,  for  if  I  stay 
You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lara.  Yes  ;  persuade  me. 

Don    C.     No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will  not 
hear ! 

Lara.     No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not  see  ! 

Don    C.   And  so  good  night.     I  wish  you  pleas 
ant  dreams, 
And  greater  faith  in  woman.  [Exit. 

Lara.  Greater  faith ! 

I  have  the  greatest  faith ;  for  I  believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.     I  believe 
That  I  shall  be  to-morrow ;  and  thereafter 
Another,  and  another,  and  another, 
Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 
As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

(Enter  FBANCISCO  with  a  casket.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  speed  with  Preciosa  ? 

Fran.  None,  my  lord. 

She   sends   your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me  tell 

you 
She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold . 

Lara.     Then  I  will  try  some  other  way  to  win 

her. 
Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I  saw  him  at  the  jeweller's  to-day. 

Lara.     What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

Fran.  I  saw  him  buy 

A  golden  ring,  that  had  a  ruby  in  it. 

Lara.     Was  there  another  like  it  ? 

Fran.  One  so  like  it 

I  could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 
Do  not  forget.     Now  light  me  to  my  bed. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  street  in  Madrid.  Enter  CHISPA, 
followed  by  musicians,  with  a  bagpipe,  guitars, 
and  other  instruments. 

Chispa.  Abernuncio  Satanas  !  and  a  plague  on 
all  lovers  who  ramble  about  at  night,  drinking  the 
elements,  instead  of  sleeping  quietly  in  their  beds. 
Every  dead  man  to  his  cemetery,  say  I ;  and 
every  friar  to  his  monastery.  Now,  here's  my 
master,  Victorian,  yesterday  a  cow-keeper,  and 
to-day  a  gentleman  •  yesterday  a  student,  and  to 
day  a  lover ;  and  I  must  be  up  later  than  the 
nightingale,  for  as  the  abbot  sings  so  must  the 
sacristan  respond.  God  grant  he  may  soon  be 
married,  for  then  shall  all  this  serenading  cease. 
Ay,  marry !  marry  !  marry  !  Mother,  what  does 
marry  mean  ?  It  means  to  spin,  to  bear  children, 
and  to  weep,  my  daughter !  And,  of  a  truth, 
there  is  something  more  in  matrimony  than  the 
wedding-ring.  (To  the  musicians.)  And  now, 
gentlemen,  Pax  vobiscum  !  as  the  ass  said  to  the 
cabbages.  Pray,  walk  this  way  ;  and  don't  hang 


down  your  heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  have  an 
old  father  and  a  ragged  shirt.  Now,  look  you, 
you  are  gentlemen  who  lead  the  life  of  crickets  ; 
you  enjoy  hunger  by  day  and  noise  by  night. 
Yet,  I  beseech  you,  for  this  once  be  not  loud,  but 
pathetic  ;  for  it  is  a  serenade  to  a  damsel  in  bed, 
and  not  to  the  Man  in  the  Moon.  Your  object  is 
not  to  arouse  and  terrify,  but  to  soothe  and  bring 
lulling  dreams.  Therefore,  each  shall  not  play 
upon  his  instrument  as  if  it  were  the  only  one  in 
the  universe,  but  gently,  and  with  a  certain  mo 
desty,  according  with  the  others.  Pray,  how 
may  I  call  thy  name,  friend  ? 

Pirst  Mus.     Gerdnimo  Gil,  at  your  service. 

Chispa.  Every  tub  smells  of  the  wine  that  is 
in  it.  Pray,  Gerdnimo,  is  not  Saturday  an  un 
pleasant  day  with  thee  ? 

First  Mus.     Why  so  ? 

Chispa.  Because  I  have  heard  it  said  that 
Saturday  is  an  unpleasant  day  with  those  who 
have  but  one  shirt.  Moreover,  I  have  seen  thee 
at  the  tavern,  and  if  thou  canst  run  as  fast  as 
thou  canst  drink,  I  should  like  to  hunt  hares 
with  thee.  What  instrument  is  that  ? 

First  Mus.     An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

'  'hispa.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bagpiper 
of  Bujalance,  who  asked  a  maravedi  for  playing, 
and  ten  for  leaving  off  ? 

First  Mus.     No,  your  honor. 

Chispa.  I  am  glad  of  it.  What  other  instru  - 
ments  have  we  ? 

/Second  and  Third  Musicians.  We  play  the 
bandurria. 

Chispa.     A  pleasing  instrument.     And  thou  ? 

Fourth  Mus.     The  tife. 

Chispa.  I  like  it ;  it  has  a  cheerful,  soul-stir 
ring  sound,  that  soars  up  to  my  lady's  window 
like  the  song  of  a  swallow.  And  you  others  ? 

Other  Mtts.  We  are  the  singers,  please  your 
honor. 

Chispa.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you  think  we 
are  going  to  sing  mass  in  the  cathedral  of  Cordo 
va?  Four  men  can  make  but  little  use  of  one 
shoe,  and  I  see  not  how  you  can  all  sing  in  one 
song.  But  follow  me  along  the  garden  wall. 
That  is  the  way  my  master  climbs  to  the  lady's 
window.  It  is  by  the  Vicar's  skirts  that  the 
Devil  climbs  into  the  belfry.  Come,  follow  me, 
and  make  no  noise.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — PRECIOSA'S   chamber.      She  stands 
at  the  open  window. 

Prec.     How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented  air 
Descends  the  tranquil  moon  !     Like  thistle-down 
The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky ; 
And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in  song. 
And  hark  !  what   songs  of  love,  what  soul-like 

sounds, 
Answer  them  from  below ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night  1 

Far  in  yon  aznre  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  1 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  1 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


47 


Breams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

(Enter  VICTOKFA.N  by  the  balcony. ) 

Viet.     Poor  little  dove  !     Thou  tremblest  like 
a  leaf! 

Prec.     I  am  so   frightened  !    'T  is  for  thee  1 

tremble  ! 

I  hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by  night ! 
Did  no  one  see  thee  "i 

Viet.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

Prec.     'T  is  very  dangerous  ;    and  when  thou 

art  gone 

I  chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 
Thus  stealthily  by  night.    Where  hast  thou  been  ? 
Since  yesterday  I  have  no  news  from  thee. 

Viet.     Since  yesterday  I  have  been  in  Alcala. 
Erelong  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 
When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more   divide 

us; 

And  I  no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a  kiss  from  thee,  as  I  do  now. 

Prec.     An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what  thou 
givest. 

Viet.     And  we  shall  sit  together  unmolested, 
And  words  of  true  love  pass  from  tongue   to 

tongue, 
As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  another. 

Prec.     That  were  a  life  to  make  time  envious  ! 
1  knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  me  to-night. 
I  saw  thee  at  the  play. 

Viet.  Sweet  child  of  air  ! 

Never  did  I  behold  thee  so  attired 
And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so  fair  ? 

Prec.     Am  I  not  always  fair  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  and  so  fair 

That  I  am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 
And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

Prec.  I  heed  them  not ; 

When  thou  art  present,  I  see  none  but  thee  ! 

Viet.     There's  nothing  fair  nor  beautiful,  but 

takes 
Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beautiful. 

Prec.    And  yet  thou  lea  vest  me  for  those  dusty 
books. 

Viet.     Thou   comest  between   me    and    those 

books  too  often  ! 

I  see  thy  face  in  everything  I  see  ! 
The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy  looks, 
The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 
And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I  see  thee  dance  cachuchas . 

Prec.  In  good  sooth, 

I  dance  with  learned"  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

Viet.     And  with  whom,  I  pray  '? 

Prec.     A  grave  and  reverend  Cardinal,  and  his 

Grace 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Viet.  What  mad  jest 

'    Is  this  ? 

Prec.     It  is  no  jest ;  Indeed  it  is  not. 

Viet.  Prithee,  explain  thyself. 

Prec.  Why,  simply  thus. 

Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into  Spain 
To  put  a  stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 

Viet.     I  have  heard  it  whispered. 

Prec.  Now  the  Cardinal, 

Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain  behold 
With  his  own  eyes  these  dances  ;    and  the  Arch 
bishop 
Has  sent  for  me — 

Viet.     That  thou  mayst  dance  before  them  ! 
Now  viva  la  cachucha  !     It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men  ! 
T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest ! 


Prec.  Saving  one. 

And  yet  I  fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 
And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a  beggar. 

Viet.     The  sweetest  beggar  that  e'er  asked  for 

alms  ; 

With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I  saw  thee 
I  gave  my  heart  away  ! 

Prec.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met  ? 

Viet.  It  was  at  Cordova, 

In  the  cathedral  garden.     Thou  wast  sitting 
Under  the  orange  trees,  beside  a  fountain. 

Prec.     'T  was  Easter-Sunday.     The   full-blos 
somed  trees 

Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with  joy. 
The  priests  were  singing,  and  the  organ  sounded, 
And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 
It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 
\Ve  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees, 
Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  together. 
I  never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 

Viet.     Thou  blessed  angel ! 

Prec.  And  when  thou  wast  gone 

I  felt  an  aching  here.     I  did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.     But  from  that  day 
Bartolome  grew  hateful  unto  me. 

Viet.     Remember  him  no  more.     Let  not  his 

shadow 

Come  between  thee  and  me.     Sweet  Preciosa  ! 
I  loved  thee  even  then,  though  I  was  silent ! 

Prec.     I  thought  I  ne'er  should  see  thy   face 

again. 
Thy  farewell  had  a  sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 

Viet.     That  was  the  first  sound  in  the  song  of 

love  ! 

Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a  sound. 
Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 
Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 
And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.     We  hear 
The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 

Prec.     That   is  my  faith.     Dost  thou  believe 
these  warnings  ? 

Viet.     So  far  as   this.     Our   feelings  and  our 

thoughts 

Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 
As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well, 
And  from  below  comes  a  scarce  audible  sound, 
So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 
And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

Prec.     I  have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words  to 

say  it ! 

I  cannot  reason  ;  I  can  only  feel ! 
But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and  feel 
ings. 

Thou  art  a  scholar  ;  and  sometimes  I  think 
We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 
The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 
Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars  ; 
I  must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Viet.  Thou  little  sceptic ! 

Dost   thou  still  doubt  ?     What  I  most  prize  in 

woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect  ! 
The  intellect  is  finite  ;  but  the  affections 
Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 
Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth  ; 
What  am  I  ?     Why,  a  pygmy  among  giants  ! 
But  if  thou  lovest, — mark  me  !  I  say  lovest, 
The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 
The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world, 
Not  that  of  man's  ambition.     In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a  woman,  calm  and  holy 
Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Feeding  its  flame.     The  element  of  fire 
Is  pure.     It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 
But  burns  as  brightly  in  a  Gypsy  camp 
As  in  a  palace  hall.     Art  thou  convinced  ? 

Prec.     Yes,  that  I  love  thee,  as  the  good  love 

heaven ; 

But  not  that  I  am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  I  more  deserve  it  ? 


48 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.  Loving  more. 

Prec.     I  cannot  love  thee  more  ;    my  heart  is 
full. 

Viet.     Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I  will  drink  it, 
As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A   Watchman  (in  the  street).     Ave  Maria 
Purissima  !     'T  is  midnight  and  serene  ! 

Viet.     Hear'st  thou  that  cry  ? 

Prec.  It  is  a  hateful  sound, 

To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Viet.  As  the  hunter's  horn 

Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of  hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 
Prec.  Pray,  do  not  go  ! 

Viet.     I  must  away  to  Alcala  to-night. 
Think  of  me  when  I  am  away. 

Prec.  Fear  not ! 

I  have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of  thee. 

Viet,  (giving  her  a  ring).     And  to  remind  thee 

of  my  love,  take  this ; 
A  serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity ; 
A  ruby, — say,  a  drop  of  my  heart's  blood. 

Prec.     It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that  the  ruby 
Brings  gladness  to  the  wearer,  and  preserves 
The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the  pillow, 
Drives  away  evil  dreams.     But  then,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Viet.  What  convent  of  barefooted  Carmelites 
Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 

Prec.    (laying  her    hand    upon    his    mnuth). 

Hush !  hush  ! 
Good  night !  and  may  all  holy  angels  guard  thee ! 

Viet.     Good  night !  good  night !     Thou  art  my 

guardian  angel ! 
I  have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to  ! 

(He  descends  by  the  balcony. ) 

Prec.     Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee.     Art 
thou  safe  ? 

Viet,  (from  the  garden).     Safe  as  my  love  for 

thee  !     But  art  thou  safe  ? 
Others  can  climb  a  balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.     Pray  shut  thy  window  close  ; 
I  am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy  lips. 

Prec.  (throwing  down  her  handkerchief).  Thou 
silly  child  !     Take  this  to  blind  thine  eyes. 
It  is  my  benison  ! 

Viet.  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft  wind 
Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 

Prec.     Make  not  thy  voyage  long. 

Viet.  To-morrow  night 

Shall  see  me  safe  returned.     Thou  art  the  star 
To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage.     Good  night ! 
My  beauteous  star  !     My  star  of  love,  good  night ! 

Prec.     Good  night ! 

Watchman  (at  a  distance).     Ave  Maria  Puris 
sima  ! 

SCENE  IV. — An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcala.     BAL 
TASAR  asleep  on  a  bench.     Enter  CHISPA. 

Chispa.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to  Alcala, 
between  cocks  and  midnight.  Body  o'  me  !  what 
an  inn  this  is  !  The  lights  out,  and  the  landlord 
asleep.  Hold  !  ancient  Baltasar  ! 

Bal.  (waking).     Here  I  am. 

Chispa.  Yes,  there  you  are.  like  a  one-eyed 
Alcalde  in  a  town  without  inhabitants.  Bring  a 
light,  and  let  me  have  supper. 

Bal.     Where  is  your  master  ? 

Chispa.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him. 
We  have  stopped  a  moment  to  breathe  our  horses  ; 
and,  if  he  chooses  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the 
open  air,  looking  into  the  sky  as  one  who  hears  it 
sain,  that  does  not  satisfy  my  hunger,  you  know. 


But  be  quick,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry,  and  every  man 
stretches  his  legs  according  to  the  length  of  his 
coverlet.  What  have  we  here  ? 

Bal.  (setting  a  light  on  the  table).  Stewed 
rabbit. 

Chispa  (eating).  Conscience  of  Portalegre  ! 
Stewed  kitten,  you  mean  ! 

Bal.  And  a  pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes,  with  a 
roasted  pear  in  it. 

Chispa  (drinking).  Ancient  Baltasar,  amigo  ! 
You  know  how  to  cry  wine  and  sell  vinegar.  I 
tell  you  this  is  nothing  but  Vino  Tinto  of  La 
Mancha,  with  a  tang  of  the  swine-skin. 

Bal.  I  swear  to  you  by  Saint  Simon  and  Judas, 
it  is  all  as  I  say. 

Chispa.  And  1  swear  to  you  by  Saint  Peter 
and  Saint  Paul,  that  it  is  no  such  thing.  More 
over,  your  supper  is  like  the  hidalgo's  dinner, 
very  little  meat  and  a  great  deal  of  tablecloth. 

Bal.     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Chispa.     And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Bal.  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  You  must  have  your  joke, 
Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I  not  ask  Don  Victo 
rian  in,  to  take  a  draught  of  the  Pedro  Ximenes  ? 

Chispa.  No;  you  might  as  well  say,  "Don't- 
you-want-some  ?"  to  a  dead  man. 

Bal.     Why  does  he  go  so  often  to  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  For  the  same  reason  that  he  eats  no 
supper.  He  is  in  love.  Were  you  ever  in  love, 
Baltasar  ? 

Bal.  I  was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa.  It 
has  been  the  torment  of  my  life. 

Chispa.  What !  are  you  on  fire,  too,  old  hay 
stack  ?  Why,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  put  you 
out. 

Viet,  (without).     Chispa ! 

Chispa.  Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the  cocks 
are  crowing. 

Viet.     Ea!  Chispa!  Chispa! 

Chispa.  Ea '  Sefior.  Come  with  me,  ancient 
Baltasar,  and  bring  water  for  the  horses.  I  will 
pay  for  the  supper  to-morrow.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V—- VICTORIAN'S  chambers  at  Alcala. 
HYPOLITO  asleep  in  an  arm-chair.  He  awakes 
slowly. 

Hyp.    I  must    have    been  asleep!    ay,  sound 

asleep ! 

And  it  was  all  a  dream.     0  sleep,  sweet  sleep! 
Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 
Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion's  well,  a  healing  draught! 
The  candles  have  burned  low;  it  must  be  late. 
Where  can  Victorian  be?     Like  Fray  Carillo, 
The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.     Here's  his  guitar,  that  seldom 
Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master's  hand. 
Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument ! 
And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a  song. 

(He  plays  and  sings. ) 

Padre  Francisco! 
Padre  Francisco ! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco? 
Here  is  a  pretty  young  maiclen 
Who  wants  to  confess  her  sins! 
Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 
I  will  shrive  her  from  every  sin. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN.) 

Viet.     Padre  Hypolito !     Padre  Hypolito ! 

Hyp.     What  do" you  want  of  Padre  Hypolito? 

Viet.     Come,  shrive  me  straight;    for,  if  lore 

be  a  sin,  ' 

I  am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 
I  will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 
A  maiden  wooed  and  won. 

Hyp.  The  same  old  tale 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


49 


Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney-corner, 

Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,  "Come  here,  my 

child ; 
I'll  tell  thee  a  story  of  my  wedding-day." 

Viet.     Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ;  so  full 
That  I  must  speak. 

Hup .  Alas  !  that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a  scene  in  the  old  play  ;  the  curtain 
Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo  !  enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne  ! 

Viet.     Nay,    like    the   Sibyl's    volumes,    thou 

shouldst  say ; 

Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were  burned, 
Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine  together. 
But  listen  to  my  tale.     Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gypsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  ? 

Hyp.     Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 

Viet.  Ay,  the  same. 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Aleala. 
She  's  in  Madrid. 

Hyp.  I  know  it. 

Viet.  And  I  'm  in  love. 

Hyp.     And  therefore  in   Madrid   when    thou 

shouldst  be 
In  Aleala 

Viet.  O  pardon  me,  my  friend, 

If  I  so  long  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee  ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such  treasures, 
And,  if  a  word  be  spoken  ere  the  time, 
They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 

Hyp.    Alas  !  alas  !  I  see  thou  art  in  love. 
Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a  cloak. 
It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.     Give  a  Spaniard 
His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dofia  Luisa — 
Thou  knowest  the  proverb.      But  pray  tell  me, 

lover, 

How  speeds  thy  wooing  ?    Is  the  maiden  coy  ? 
Write  her  a  song,  beginning  with  an  Ave; 
Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

Ave  !  cuj-us  calcem  dare 
Nee,  centenni  commendare 
Seiret  Seraph  studio .' 

Viet.     Pray,  do  not  jest !  This  is  no  time  for  it ! 
I  am  in  earnest ! 

Hyp.  Seriously  enamored  ? 

What,  ho  !  The  Primus  of  great  Aleala 
Enamored  of  a  Gypsy  ?     Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  V 

Viet.  I  mean  it  honestly. 

Hyp.     Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her  ! 

Viet.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.     She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartolome, 
If  I  remember  rightly,  a  young  Gypsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cordova. 

Viet.  They  quarrelled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hyp.  But  in  truth 

Thou  wilt  not  marry  her. 

Viet.  In  truth  I  will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born  ! 
She  is  a  precious  jewel  I  have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I  '11  stoop  for  it ;  but  when  I  wear  it  here, 
Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugh. 

Hyp.     If  thou  wear'st  nothing  else  upon  thy 

forehead, 
'T  will  be  indeed  a  wonder. 

Viet.  Out  upon  thee 

With  thy  unseasonable  jests  !     Pray  tell  me, 
Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

Hyp.  Not  much. 

What,  think' st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this  moment ; 
Now,  while  we  speak  of  her  ? 

Viet.  She  lies  asleep, 

And  from  her  pa,rted  lips  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of  flowers, 
4 


Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and  on  her  breast 
The  cross  she  prayed  to,  ere  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  fails  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams, 
Like  a  light  barge  safe  moored. 

Hyp.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She  's  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a  little  open  ! 

Viet.     O,  would  I  had  the  old  magician's  glass 
To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  childlike  sleep  ! 

Hyp.     And  wouldst  thou  venture? 

Viet.  Ay,  indeed  I  would ! 

Hyp.     Thou  art  courageous.       Hast  thou  e'er 

reflected 
How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now  ? 

Viet.     Yes  ;  all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life  ! 
I  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 
That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 
What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  death 
bed, 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells  ! 
What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks  ! 
What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling ! 
What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together  ! 

Hyp.     Ay,  there  it  is  !  and,  if  I  were  in  love, 
That  is  the  very  point  I  most  should  dread. 
This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine, 
Might  tell  a  tale  were  better  left  untold. 
For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair  cousin, 
The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 
Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  Colchis, 
Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 
Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a  woman's  love, 
Desertest  for  this  Glauce. 

Viet.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  not  for  me.     She  may  wed  another, 
Or  go  into  a  convent,  and,  thus  dying, 
Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 

Hyp.   (ri&iny).  And  so,  good  night ! 
Good  morning,  I  should  say. 

( Clock  strikes  three. ) 

Hark  !  how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of  Time 

Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day  ! 

And  so,    once  more,    good  night !   We  '11  speak 

more  largely 

Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 
Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass, 
In  all  her  loveliness.     Good  night ! 

[Exit. 

Viet.  Good  night. 

But  not  to  bed  ;  for  I  must  read  awhile. 

(Throws  himself  into  the  arm-chair  which  HYPO- 
UTO  has  left,  and  lays  a  large  book  open  upon 
his  knees. ) 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  revery  and  watch 

The  changing  color  of  the  waves  that  break 

Upon  the  idle  sea-shore  of  the  mind  ! 

Visions  of  Fame  !  that  once  did  visit  me, 

Making   night  glorious   with  your   smile,  where 

are  ye  ? 

O,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are  gone, 
Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  ? 
Or  teach  me  where  that  wondrous  mandrake  grows 
Whose   magic   root,    torn  from   the    earth   with 

groans, 

At  midnight  hour,  can  scare  the  fiends  away, 
And  make  the  mind  prolific  in  its  fancies  ? 
I  have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to  act ! 
Souls  of  great  men  departed  !     Ye  whose  words 
Have  come  to  lighb  from  the  swift  river  of  Time, 


50 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus'  bed, 
Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  the  arms  ye  bore  ? 
From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 
As  from  a  mirror  !     All  the  means  of  action — 
The  shapeless  masses,  the  materials  — 
Lie  everywhere  about  us.     What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  !     The  rude  peasant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  with  travel, 
And  begs  a  shelter  from  the  inclement  night. 
He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant's  hand, 
And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 
Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine, 
And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 
It  gleams  a  diamond  !     Even  thus  transformed, 
Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 
Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 
Of  some  poor,   houseless,    homeless,    wandering 

bard, 

Who  had  but  a  night's  lodging  for  his  pains. 
But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those  of  Fame, 
Which   are  the  dreams  of    Love !     Out  of   the 

heart 

Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams, 
As  from  some  woodland  fount  a  spirit  rises 
And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 
Ere  the  enamored  knight  can  touch  her  robe  ! 
'T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 
Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the  fountain, 
Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life's  stream ; 
Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters, 
Clad  in  a  mortal  shape  !     Alas  !  how  many 
Must  wait  in  vain  !     The  stream  flows  evermore, 
But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises  ! 
Yet  I,  born  under  a  propitious  star, 
Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 
Yes !  she  is  ever  with  me.     I  can  feel, 
Here,  as  I  sit  at  midnight  and  alone, 
Her  gentle  breathing !   on  my  breast  can  feel 
The  pressure  of  her  head  !  God's  benison 
Rest  ever  on  it !     Close  those  beauteous  eyes, 
Sweet  Sleep  !  and  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  at 

night 
With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my  name ! 

(Gradually  sinks  asleep.) 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I — PRECIOSA'S  chamber.    Morning.  PKE- 
CIOSA  and  ANGELICA. 

Prec.    Why  will   you  go  so   soon?    Stay   yet 

awhile. 

The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  that  shut  against  them  with  a  sound 
That  will   be  heard  in   heaven.     Pray,  tell  me 

more 

Of  your  adversities.     Keep  nothing  from  me. 
What  is  your  landlord's  name  ? 

Ang.  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Prec.    The   Count  of  Lara  ?     O,    beware  that 

man  ! 

Mistrust  his  pity, — hold  no  parley  with  him  ! 
And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 

Ang.  You  know  him,  then  ! 

Prec.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 
As  you  would  keep  your  name  without  a  blemish, 
Beware  of  him  ! 

Ang.  Alas  !  what  can  I  do  ? 

I  cannot  choose  my  friends.     Each  word  of  kind 
ness, 
Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 


Prec.    Make  me  your  friend.     A  girl  so  young 

and  fair 

Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  her  own  sex. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Ang.  Angelica. 

Prec.  That  name 

Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an  angel 
To  her  who  bore  you  !     When  your  infant  smile 
Made  her  home  Paradise,  you  were  her  angel 

0,  be  an  angel  still !     She  needs  that  smile. 
So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 
No  one  can  harm  you  !     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public  streets. 
I  have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own  virtue. 
That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me  ! 
Amid  a  thousand  perils,  I  have  worn  it 

Here  on  my  heart !     It  is  my  guardian  angel. 
Ang.  (rising).   I  thank  you  for   this  counsel, 

dearest  lady. 

Prec.     Thank  me  by  following  it. 
Ang.  Indeed  I  will. 

Prec.    Pray,  do  not  go.     I  have  much  more  to 

say.    , 
Ang.    My  mother  is  alone.     I   dare  not  leave 

her. 
Prec.    Some  other   time,  then,  when   we  meet 

again. 
You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 

( Gives  her  a  purse. ) 

Take  this.     Would  it  were  more. 

Ang.  I  thank  you,  lady. 

Prec.    No  thanks.      To-morrow  come   to  me 

again. 

I  dance  to-night, — perhaps  for  the  last  time. 
But  what  I  gain,  I  promise  shall  be  yours, 
If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of  Lara. 

Ang.  O,  my  dear  lady  !  bow  shall  I  be  grateful 
For  so  much  kindness  ? 

Prec.  I  deserve  no  thanks, 

Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 

Ang.  Both  Heaven  and  you. 

Prec.  Farewell. 

Remember  that  you  come  again  to-morrow. 

A  ng.    I  will.     And    may   the   Blessed  Virgin 

guard  you, 
And  all  good  angels.  [Exit. 

Prec.  May  they  guard  thee  too, 

And  all  the  poor  ;  for  they  have  need  of  angels. 
Now  bring  me.  dear  Dolores,  my  basquina, 
My  richest  maja  dress, — my  dancing  dress, 
And  my  most  precious  jewels  !     Make  me  look 
Fairer  than  night  e'er  saw  me  !     I've  a  prize 
To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa  ! 

(Enter  BELTRAN  CRUZADO.) 

Cruz.    Ave  Maria  ! 

Prec.  O  God  !  my  evil  genius  ! 

What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ? 

Cruz.  Thyself, — my  child. 

Prec.     What  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

Cruz.  Gold !  gold  ! 

Prec.     I  gave  thee  yesterday  ;  I  have  no  more. 

Cruz.     The  gold  of  the  Busne, — give  me  his 
gold ! 

Prec.     I  gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 

Cruz.     That  is  a  foolish  lie. 

Prec.  It  is  the  truth. 

Cruz.     Curses  upon  thee !      Thou  art  not  my 

child  ! 

Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me  '? 
Not  to  thy  father  ?     To  whom,  then  ? 

Prec.  To  one 

Who  needs  it  more. 

Cruz.  No  one  can  need  it  more. 

Prec.     Thou  art  not  poor. 

Cruz.  What,  I,  who  lurk  about 

In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  lanes  ; 

1,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley  slave ; 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


ol 


I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled  hound  ; 
I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags, — Beltran  Cruzado, — 
Not  poor ! 

Prec.     Thou    hast  a   stout   heart  and   strong 

hands. 

Thou    canst   supply   thy   wants;    what   wouldst 
thou  more  V 

Cruz.     The  gold  of  the   Busne  !    give  me   his 
gold ! 

Prec.     Beltran  Cruzado  !  hear  me  once  for  all. 
I  speak  the  truth.     So  long  as  I  had  gold, 
I  gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times, 
Never  denied  thee ;  never  had  a  wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.     Now  go  in  peace  ! 
Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and  erelong 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

Cruz.  And  if  I  have  it  not, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich  chambers, 
Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 
And  live  in  idleness ;  but  go  with  me, 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 
And  wander  wild  again  o'er  field  and  fell ; 
For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Prec.  What !  march  again  ? 

Cruz.     Ay,  with  all  speed.     I  hate  the  crowded 

town  ! 

I  cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates  ! 
Air, — I  want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky, 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face. 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain-tops. 
Then  I  am  free  and  strong,  —once  more  myself, 
Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Gales  ! 

Prec.     God  speed  thee  on  thy  march  ! — t  can 
not  go. 

Cruz.     Remember  who  I  am,  and  who  thou  art ! 
Be  silent  and  obey !     Yet  one  thing  more. 
Bartolome'  Roman — 

Prec.    (with  emotion}.     O,  I  beseech  thee 
If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life, 
If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion  ;  if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
In  my  behalf,  who  am  a  feeble  girl. 
Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  !     I  am  afraid  oi;  him  ! 
I  do  not  love  him  !     On  my  knees  I  beg  thee 
To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

Cruz.  O  child,  child,  child  ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a  bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 
I  will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a  grandee's  mistress.     Make  thee  ready 
To  go  with  us  ;  and  until  then  remember 
A  watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  [Exit. 

Prec.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I  have  a  strange  misgiving  in  my  heart ! 
But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I  '11  do. 
Befall  what  may ;  they  cannot  take  that  from  me. 

SCENE  II — A  room  in  the  ARCHBISHOP'S  Palace. 
The  ARCHBISHOP  and  a  CARDINAL  seated. 

A  rch.     Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the  pub 
lic  morals, 

Ajnd  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and  rotten 
By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time, 
By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 
All  this  you  know. 

Card.  Know  and  approve. 

Arch.  And  further, 

That,  by  a  mandate  from  his  Holiness, 
The  first  have  been  suppressed. 


Card.  I  trust  forever. 

It  was  a  cruel  sport. 

A  rch.  A  barbarous  pastime, 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  arid  Christian. 

Card.  Yet  the  peonle 

Murmur  at  this  ;  and,  if  the  public  dances 
Should  be  condemned  upon  too  slight  occasion, 
Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 
As  Paneut  et  Circenxes  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 
So  Pan  n  To  run  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 
Hence  1  would  act  advisedly  herein ; 
And  therefore  have  induced  your  Grace  to  see 
These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict  them. 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Serv.     The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the  musi 
cians 

Your  Grace  was  pleased  to  order,  wait  without. 
Arch.     Bid  them  come  in.    Now  shall  your  eyes 

behold 

In  what  angelic,  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

(Enter  PRECIOSA,  with  a  mantle  thrown  over  her 
head.  She  advances  slowly,  in  modest,  half- 
timid  attitude.) 

Card,   (aside).     O,  what  a  fair  and  ministering 

angel 
Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman  fell ! 

Prec.  (kneeling  before  the  ARCHBISHOP).      I 

have  obeyed  the  order  of  your  Grace. 
If  I  intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 
I  proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Arch.  May  God  bless  thee. 

And  lead  thee  to  a  better  life.     Arise. 

Card,  (aside).     Her  acts  are  modest,  and  her 

words  discreet ! 

I  did  not  look  for  this  !     Come  hither,  child. 
Is  thy  name  Preciosa  '1 

Prec.  Thus  I  am  called. 

Card.     That  is  a  Gypsy  name.    Who  is  thy  fa 
ther  •'. 

Prec.     Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Gale's. 

Arch.     I  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  that  man ; 
He  was  a  bold  and  reckless  character, 
A  sun-burnt  Ishmael ! 

Card.  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 

Prec.  Yes  ;  by  the  Darrp's  side 

My  childhood  passed.     I  can  remember  still 
The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with  snow  ; 
The  villages,  where,  yet  a  little  child, 
I  told  the  traveller's  fortune  in  the  street ; 
The  smuggler's  horse,  the  brigand  and  the  shep 
herd  ; 

The  march  across  the  moor  ;  the  halt  at  noon  ; 
The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp,  that  lighted 
The  forest  where  we  slept ;  and,  further  back, 
As  in  a  dream  or  in  some  former  life, 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

Arch.  'T  is  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gypsy  camp  was  pitched. 
But  the  time  wears  ;  and  we  would  see  thee  dance. 

Prec.     Your  Grace  shall  be  obeyed. 

(She  lays  aside  her  mantilla.  The  music  of  the, 
cachucha  is  played,  and  the  dance  begins.  The 
ARCHBISHOP  and  the  CARDINAL,  look  on  with 
gravity  and  ait  occasional  frown  ;  then  make 
signs  to  each  other  ;  and,  as  the.  dance  contin 
ues,  become  more  and  more  pleased  and  excited  ; 
and  at  length  rise  from  their  seats,  throw  their 
ca2Js  in  the  air,  and  applaud  vehemently  ax  the 
scene  closes.) 

SCENE    III.  —  The  Prado.    A  long  avenue  of  trees 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


leading  to  the  gate  of  Atocha.  On  the  right  the 
dome  and  spires  of  a  convent.  A  fountain. 
Evening,  DON  CARLOS  and  HYPOLITO  meeting. 

Don  C.     Hola !  good  evening,  Don  Hypolito. 

Hyp.     And  a  good  evening  to  my  friend,  Don 

Carlos. 

Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  way. 
I  was  in  search  of  you. 

Don  C.  Command  me  always. 

Hyp.     Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo's  Dreams, 
The  miser,  who,  upon  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ? 

Don  U.  I  do , 

But  what  of  that  ? 

Hyp.  I  am  that  wretched  man. 

Don  C.     You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have  risen 
empty  ? 

Hyp.     And  amen  !  said  my  Cid  the  Campeador. 

Don  C.     Pray,  how  much  need  you  ? 

Hyp.  Some  half-dozen  ounces, 

Which,  with  due  interest — 

Don  (J.  (giving  his  purse).     What,  am  I  a  Jew 
To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  ? 
Here  is  my  purse. 

Hyp.        Thank  you.     A  pretty  purse. 
Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrilefia  ; 
Perhaps  a  keepsake. 

Don  C.  No,  't  is  at  your  service. 

Hyp.     Thank  you  again.  Lie  there,  good  Chry- 

sostom, 

And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me  often, 
I  am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

Don  C.  But  tell  me, 

Come  you  to-day  from  Alcalii  ? 

Hyp.  This  moment. 

Don  C.     And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave  Victor-  ! 
ian? 

Hyp.     Indifferent  well :  that  is  to  say,  not  well. 
A  damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen  catch 
A  steer  of  Andalusia  with  a  lazo. 
He  is  in  love. 

Don  C.  And  is  it  faring  ill 

To  be  in  love  ? 

Hyp.  In  his  case  very  ill. 

Don  C.     "Why  so  ? 

Hyp.     For  many  reasons.    First  and  foremost, 
Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal ; 
A  creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 
A  child  of  air  ;  an  echo  of  his  heart ; 
And,  like  a  lily  on  a  river  floating, 
She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts  ! 

DonU.    A  common  thing  with  poets.   But  who  is 
This  floating  lily  ?     For,  in  fine,  some  woman, 
Some  living  woman, — not  a  mere  ideal, — 
Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his  thought. 
Who  is  it  ?    Tell  me. 

Hyp.  Well,  it  is  a  woman  ! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn  her, 
As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she  gleams 
One  blaze  of  glory.     Without  these,  you  know, 
And  the  priest's  benediction,  't  is  a  doll. 

Don  C.     Well,  well !  who  is  this  doll  ? 

Hyp.  Why,  who  do  you  think  ? 

Don  C.     His  cousin  Violante. 

Hyp.  Guess  again. 

To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  ingots. 

Don  C.     I  cannot  guess  ;  so  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Hyp.     Not  I. 

Don  C.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.    (mysteriously).     Why  ?     Because    Mari 

Franca 
Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Salamanca  ! 

Don  C.     Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 

Hyp.  Preciosa. 

Don  C.  Impossible !  The  Count  of  Lara  tells  me 
She  is  not  virtuous. 


Hyp.  Did  I  say  she  was  ? 

The  Roman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a  wife 
Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  I  think  ; 
Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 
But  hist !     I  see  him  yonder  through  the  trees, 
Walking  as  in  a  dream. 

Don  6".  He  comes  this  way. 

Hyp.     It  has  been  truly  said  by  some  wise  man, 
That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  be  hidden. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  in  front.) 

Viet.     Where'er  thy  step  has  passed  is  holy 

ground  ! 

These  groves  are  sacred  !     I  behold  thee  walking 
Under    these     shadowy  trees,    where    we    have 

walked 

At  evening,  and  I  feel  thy  presence  now  ; 
Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a  charm  from  thee, 
And  is  forever  hallowed. 

Hyp.  Mark  him  well ! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 
Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim  Com 
mander 
Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 

Don  C.     What  ho  !     Victorian  ! 

Hyp.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ? 

Viet.     Hola  !     Amigos  !     Faith,  I  did  not  see 

you. 
How  fares  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  At  your  service  ever. 

Viet.     How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed  Gadi- 

tana 
That  you  both  wot  of  ? 

Don  V.         v  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes ! 

She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

Hyp.  Ay  de  mi ! 

Viet.     You  are  much  to  blame  for  letting  her 

go  back. 

A  pretty  girl ;  and  in  her  tender  eyes 
Just  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes  see 
In  evening  skies. 

Hyp.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes, 

Are  thine  green  ? 

Viet.  Not  a  whit.     Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  I  think 

The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  becoming, 
For  thou  art  jealous. 

Viet.  No,  I  am  not  jealous. 

Hyp.     Thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Why  ? 

Hyp.  Because  thou  art  in  love. 

And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Marry,  is  that  all  ? 

Farewell ;   I  am  in  haste.     Farewell,  Don   Car 
los. 

Thou  sayest  I  should  be  jealous  ? 

Hyp.  Ay,  in  truth 

I  fear  there  is  reason.  Be  upon  thy  guard. 
I  hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

Viet.  Indeed ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his  pains. 

Hyp.     He  does  not  think  so,  and  Don  Carlos 

tells  me 
He  boasts  of  his  success. 

Viet.  How  's  this,  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.     Some  hints  of  it  I  heard  from  his  own 

lips. 

He  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady's  virtue, 
As  a  gay  man  might  speak. 

Viet .  Death  and  damnation  ! 

I'll  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog  !     But  no,  no,  no  ! 
This  cannot  be.     You  jest,  indeed  you  jest. 
Trifle  with  me  no  more.     For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.     And  so,  farewell ! 

[Exit. 

Hyp-     Now  what  a  coil  is  here  !     The  Aveng 
ing  Child 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


53 


Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 
And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he  rode 
To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 
Were  nothing  to  him  !     O  hot-headed  youth  ! 
But  come  ;  we  will  not  follow.     Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.     There 
We  shall  find  merrier  company  ;  I  see 
The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 
And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. —  PRECIOSA'S  chamber.  She  is  sitting, 
with  a  book  in  her  hand,  near  a  table,  on  which 
are  flowers,  A  bird  singing  in  its  cage.  The 
COUNT  OF  LARA  enters  behind  unperceived. 

Prec.  (reads). 

AH  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art  1 

Heigho  !     I  wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  makes  me  so  restless  ! 

(The  bird  sings.} 

Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley  coat, 
That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  singest, 
Like  thee  I  am  a  captive,  and,  like  thee, 
I  have  a  gentle  jailer.     Lack-a-day  ! 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 
All  this  throbbing,  all  this  aching, 
Evermore  shall  keep  thee  waking, 
For  a  heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart ! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet !  and  methinks 
More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of  ours 
Than  one  would  say.     In  distant  villages 
And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have  wafted 
The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  passage 
Scattered  them  in  their  flight,  do  they  take  root, 
And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  perish. 
Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf  ? 
Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that  dies  ? 
Heigho  !     I  wish  Victorian  would  come. 
Dolores ! 

( Turns  to  lay  down  her  book,   and  perceives  the 
COUNT.) 

Ha! 

Lara.  Senora,  pardon  me  ! 

Prec.     How  's  this  ?     Dolores  ! 

Lara.  Pardon  me  — 

Prec.  Dolores ! 

Lara.     Be  not  alarmed ;   I  found  no  one  in 

waiting. 
If  I  have  been  too  bold  — 

Prec.     (turning  her  back  upon  him).     You  are 

too  bold  ! 
Retire  !  retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

Lara.  My  dear  lady, 

First  hear  me  !     I  beseech  you,  let  me  speak  ! 
'T  is  for  your  good  I  come. 

Prec.     (turning  toward  him  with  indignation). 

Begone !  begone  ! 

You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs  !     Is  it  Castilian  honor, 
Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a  friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 

0  shame  !  shame  !   shame  !  that  you,  a  nobleman, 
Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 

As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 
And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your  gold  ! 

1  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  scorn  you  ! 
Begone  !     The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me  ! 
Begone,  I  say  ! 

Lara.     Be  calm  ;  I  will  not  harm  you. 
Prec.     Because  you  dare  not. 


Lara.  I  dare  anything  ! 

Therefore  beware  !     You  are  deceived  in  me. 
In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always  know 
Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  enemies. 
We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 
Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you. 

Prec.  If  to  this 

I  owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit, 
You  might  have   spared  the  coming.      Having 

spoken, 
Once  more  I  beg  you,  leave  me  to  myself. 

Lara.     I  thought  it  but  a  friendly  part  to  tell 

you 

What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in  town. 
For  my  own  self,  I  do  not  credit  them  ; 
But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing  you, 
Will  lend  a  readier  ear. 

Prec.  There  was  no  need 

That  you  should  take  upon  yourself  the  duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

Lara.  Malicious  tongues 

Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

Prec.  Alas  ! 

I'  ve  no  protectors.     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jests. 
They  wound  me,  yet  I  cannot  shield  myself. 
I  give  no  cause  for  these  reports.     I  live 
Retired  ;  am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  ? 

O,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged  ! 

Prec.  How  mean  you  ? 

Lara.     Nay,  nay  ;    I  will  not  wound  your  gen 
tle  soul 
By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

Prec.  Speak  out ! 

What  are  these  idle  tales  ?     You  need  not  spare 
me. 

Lara.  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you.   Pardon  me ; 
This  window,  as  I  think,  looks  toward  the  street, 
And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 
In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden  wall, — 
You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the  trees, — 
There  lives  a  friend,  who  told  me  yesterday, 
That  on  a  certain  night, — be  not  offended 
If  I  too  plainly  speak, — he  saw  a  man 
Climb  to  your  chamber  window.    You  are  silent ! 
I  would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and  fair — 

(He  tries  to  embrace  her.     She  starts  back,  and 
draius  a  dagger  from  her  bosom. ) 

Prec.  Beware !  beware  !  I  am  a  Gypsy  girl ! 
Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.  One  step  nearer 
And  I  will  strike  ! 

Lara.     Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 
Fear  not. 

Prec.     I  do  not  fear.     I  have  a  heart 
In  whose  strength  I  can  trust. 

Lara.  Listen  to  me. 

I  come  here  as  your  friend, — I  am  your  friend, — 
And  by  a  single  word  can  put  a  stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  lilies  are.     Here  on  my  knees, 
Fair  Preciosa !  on  my  knees  I  swear, 
I  love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  custom, 
And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  presence. 

(VICTORIAN  enters  behind.) 

Prec.     Rise,  Count  of  Lara  !     That  is  not  the 

place 

For  such  as  you  are.      It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.     I  am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and  humbled; 
For  your  sake  I  will  put  aside  all  anger, 
All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a  woman, 
And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.     I  no  more 
Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to  me. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


But  if,  without  offending  •  modesty 
And  that  reserve  which  is  a  woman's  glory, 
I  may  speak  freely,  I  will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 

Lara.  O  sweet  angel ! 

Prec.  Ay,  in  truth, 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 

Lara.     Give  me  some  sign  of  this, — the  slight 
est  token. 
Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

Prec.  Nay,  come  no  nearer. 

The  words  I  utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not !     Be  not  deceived  ! 
The  love  wherewith  I  love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.     For  you  come  here 
To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I  have, 
My  honor.     You  are  wealthy,  you  have  friends 
And  kindred,  and  a  thousand  pleasant  hopes 
That  fill  your  heart  with  happiness  ;  but  I 
Am  poor,  and  friendless,  having  but  one  treasure, 
And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and  for  what  f 
To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make  me 
What  you  would  most  despise.     O  sir,  such  love, 
That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  be  true  love. 
Indeed  it  cannot.     But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a  different  kind.     It  seeks  your  good. 
It  is  a  holier  feeling.      It  rebukes 
Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 
And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 
How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in  you, 
And  grieve  your  soul  with  sin. 

Lara.  I  swear  to  you, 

I  would  not  harm  you ;  I  would  only  love  you. 
I  would  not  take  your  honor,  but  restore  it, 
And  in  return  I  ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  affection.     If  indeed  you  love  me, 
As  you  confess  you  do,  O  let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace — 

Viet.  (Rushing  forward.)    Hold!  hold!  This 

is  too  much. 
What  means  this  outrage  ? 

Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 

To  question  thus  a  nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

Viet.     I  too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no  more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Viet.   Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the  wrong 

of  others 
Gives  me  the  right ! 

Prec.  (to  LARA).  Go!  I  beseech  you,  go  ! 

Viet.     I  shall  have  business  with  you,  Count, 
anon! 

Lara.     You  cannot  come  too  soon  !  [Exit. 

Prec.  Victorian ! 

O,  we  have  been  betrayed  ! 

Viet.  Ha  !  ha  !  betrayed  ! 

'T  is  I  have  been  betrayed,  not  we  ! — not  we  ! 

Prec.     Dost  thou  imagine — 

Viet .  I  imagine  nothing ; 

I  see  how  't  is  thou  whilest  the  time  away 
When  I  am  gone  ! 

Prec.  O  speak  not  in  that  tone  ! 

It  wounds  me  deeply. 

Viet.  '  T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 

Prec.     Too  well  thou  knowest  the  presence  of 

that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me ! 

Viet.  Yet  I  saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 

Prec.     I  did  not  heed  his  words. 

Viet.  Indeed  thou  didst, 

And  answeredst  them  with  love. 

Prec.  Hadst  thou  heard  all — 

Viet.     I  heard  enough. 

Prec.  Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

Viet.     I  am  not  angry  ;  I  am  very  calm. 

Prec.     If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak — 
Viet.  Nay,  say  no  more. 

I  know  too  much'already.     Thou  art  false ! 
I  do  not  like  these  Gypsy  marriages  ! 
Where  is  the  ring  I  gave  thee  ? 


Prec.  In  my  casket. 

Viet.    There  let  it  rest !    I  would  not  have  thee 

wear  it : 
I  thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  polluted  ! 

Prec.     I  call  the  Heavens  to  witness — 

Viet.  Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy  lips  ! 
They  are  forsworn  ! 

Prec.  Victorian  !  dear  Victorian  ! 

Viet.     I  gave  up  all  for  thee ;  myself,  my  fame. 
My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul ! 
And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  !     Now,  go  on  ! 
Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour, 
And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara's  knee, 
Say  what  a  poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was  ! 

(He  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.) 
Prec.     And  this  from  thee ! 
(Scene  closes.  )^ 


SCENE  V. — The  COUNT  OF  LARA'S  rooms.  Entei 
the  COUNT. 

Lara.     There  's  nothing  in  this  world  so  sweet 

as  love, 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is  hate  ! 
I  've  learned  to  hate,  an4  therefore  am  revenged. 
A  silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 
The  fire  that  I  have  kindled — 

(Enter  FRANCISCO.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ? 

Fran.  Good,  my  lord  ; 

He  will  be  present. 

Lara.  And  the  Duke  of  Lermos  ? 

Fran.     Was  not  at  home. 

Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Fran.  I  've  found 

The  men  you  wanted.     They  will  all  be  there, 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a  whirlwind 
Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  !  little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 
What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.     Sleep  shall  not  close 
Thine  eyes  this  night !     Give  me  my  cloak  and 
sword.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — A  retired  spot  beyond  the  city  gates. 
Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO. 

Viet.     O  shame  !  O  shame  !     Why  do  I  walk 

abroad 

By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks  me, 
And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
Cry,  ' '  Hide  thyself  !  "     O  what-  a  thin  partition 
Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the  knowl 
edge 

Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  darkness  ! 
Disgrace  has  many  tongues.     My  fears  are  win 
dows. 

Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing.     Every  face- 
Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 
And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  ! 
Hyp.     Did  1  not  caution  thee  ?     Did  I  not  tell 

thee 
I  was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 

Viet.     And  yet,  Hypplito,  we  may  be  wrong, 
We  may  be  over-hastjr  in  condemning  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  cursed  villain. 
Hyp.     And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  loving  him. 
Viet.     She  does  not  love  him  !     'T  is  for  gold ! 

for  gold ! 

Hyp.     Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public  streets 
He  shows  a  golden  ring  the  Gypsy  gave  him, 
A  serpent  with  a  ruby  in  its  mouth. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.     She  had  that  ring  from  me  !    God  !    she 

is  false ! 

But  I  will  be  revenged  !     The  hour  is  passed. 
Where  stays  the  coward  ? 

Hyp.  Nay,  he  is  no  coward ; 

A  villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a  coward. 
I've  seen  him  play  with  swords ;  it  is  his  pastime. 
And  therefore  be  not  over-confident, 
He  '11  task  thy  skill  anon      Look,  here  he  comes. 

(Enter  IA\K\  followed  by  FRANCISCO.) 

Lara.     Good  evening,  gentlemen. 
IIijp.  Good  evening,  Count. 

Lara.     I  trust  I  have  not  kept  you  long  in  wait 
ing. 
Viet.     Not  long,  and  yet  too   long.     Are  you 

prepared  ? 
Lara.  I  am. 
Hyp.  It  grieves  me  much  to 

see  this  quarrel 

Between  you,  gentlemen.     Is  there  no  way 
Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 
But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 

Viet.  No  !  none ! 

I  do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 
Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.     Too  long 
Our  tongues  have  spoken.     Let  these  tongues  of 

steel 
End  our  debate.     Upon  your  guard,  Sir  Count. 

(They  jiyht.    VICTORIAN  disarms  the  COUNT.) 

Your  life  is  mine ;  and  what  shall  now  withhold 

me 

From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  account  ? 
Lara.     Strike  !    strike  ! 
Viet.  You  are  disarmed. 

I  will  not  kill  you. 
I  will  not  murder  you.     Take  up  your  sword. 

(FRANCISCO  hands  the  COUNT  his  sword,  and 
HYPOLITO  interposes.) 

Hyp.     Enough  !     Let  it  end  here  !     The  Count 

of  Lara 

Has  shown  himself  a  brave  man,  and  Victorian 
A  generous  one  as  ever.     Now  be  friends. 
Put  up  your  swords  ;  for,  to  speak  frankly  to  you, 
Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a  thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lura.  I  am  content. 

I  sought  no  quarrel.     A  few  hasty  words, 
Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to  this. 

Viet.     Nay,  something  more  than  that. 

Lam.  I  understand  you. 

Therein  I  did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 
To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 
But,  had  I  known  the  girl  belonged  to  you, 
Never  would  I  have  sought  to  win  her  from  you. 
The  truth  stands  now  revealed  ;    she  has   been 

false 
To  both  of  us. 

Viet  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself  : 

Lara.     In  truth,  I  did  not  seek  her  ;  she  sought 

me  ; 

And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The  hours  when  she  was  oftenest  left  alone. 

Viet.     Say,  can  you  prove  this  to  me  V   O,  pluck 

out 

These  awful  doubts,  that  goad  me  into  madness  ! 
Let  me  know  all !  all !  all ! 

Lara.  You  shall  know  all. 

Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.     Question  him.     Was  it  not  so, 
Francisco  ? 

Fran.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara.  If  further  proof 

Is  needful,  I  have  here  a  ring  she  gave  me. 

Viet.     Pray  let?  me  see   that   ring !     It  is   the 
same ! 


(Throws  it  upon  the  ground,  and  tramples  upon 
it.) 

Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that  ring  ! 
Thus  do  I  spurn  her  from  me  ;  do  thus  trample 
Her  memory  in  the  dust  !     O  Count  of  Lara, 
We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much  abused  ! 
I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frankness. 
Though,  like  the  surgeon's  hand,   yours  gave  me 

pain, 

Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I  thank  you. 
I  now  can  see  the  folly  I  have  done, 
Though  't  is  alas  !  too  late.     So  fare  you  well  ! 
To-night  I  leave  this  hateful  town  forever. 
Regard  me  as  your  friend.     Once  more  farewell 
Hyp.     Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[Exeunt  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO. 

Lara.     Farewell  !  farewell  !  farewell  ! 
Thus  have  I  cleared  the  field  of  my  worst  foe  ! 
I  have  none  else  to  fear  ;  the  fight  is  done, 
The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 
[Exit  with 


SCENE    VII.  —  A   lane    in  the    suburbs.     Night. 
Enter  CRUZADO  and  BAKTOLOME. 

Vruz.  And  so,  Bartolome,  the  expedition 
failed.  But  where  wast  thou  for  the  most  part  ''. 

B/irt.  In  the  Guadarrama  mountains,  near 
San  Ildefonso. 

Cruz.  And  thou  brmgest  nothing  back  with 
thee  "i  Didst  thou  rob  no  one  '1 

B>trt.  There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save  a  party  of 
students  from  Segovia,  who  looked  as  if  they 
would  rob  us  ;  and  a  jolly  little  friar,  who  had 
nothing  in  his  pockets  but  a  missal  and  a  loaf  of 
bread. 

Cruz.  Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  back  to 
Madrid  ? 

Bart.     First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  here  ''. 

Cruz.     Preciosa. 

Bart.  And  she  brings  me  back.  Hast  thou 
forgotten  thy  promise  'i 

(Jruz.  The  two  years  are  not  passed  yet.  Wait 
patiently.  The  girl  shall  be  thine. 

Bart,     I  hear  she  has  a  Busne'  lover. 

(Jruz.     That  is  nothing. 

Bart.  I  do  not  like  it.  I  hate  him,  —  the  son 
of  a  Busne  harlot.  He  goes  in  and  out,  and  speaks 
with  her  alone,  and  I  must  stand  aside,  and  wait 
his  pleasure. 

Cruz.  Be  patient,  I  say.  Thou  shalt  have 
thy  revenge.  When  the  time  comes,  thou  shalt 
waylay  him. 

Bart.     Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 

f.'i'uz.  Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not  find 
her.  She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 

Bart.     No  matter.     Show  me  the  house. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VIII. — Tlie  Theatre.  The  orchestra  piny s 
the  cachucha.  Sound  of  castanets  behind  t'l>e 
scenes.  The  curtain  rises,  and  discovers  PUL- 
CIOSA  in  the  attitude  of  commencinr/  the  dance. 
The  cacJnicha.  Tumult;  hisses;  cries  of 
"  Brava  .'  "  and  "  Afuera  !  "  She.  falters  and 
pauses  The  music  stops.  Oeneral  confusion. 
PRECIOSA /rtiwte. 


SCENE  IX.  —  Tfie  COUNT    OF   LARA'S  chambers. 
LARA  and  his  friends  at  supper. 

Lara.    So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many  thanks ! 
You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  matter. 
Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Don  J.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 

How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise  began, 


56 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes  dilated  ! 
Her  nostrils  spread  !  her  lips  apart !  her  bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea ! 

Don  L.  I  pitied  her. 

Lara.     Her  pride  is  humbled ;   and  this  very 

night 
I  mean  to  visit  her. 

Don  J.  Will  you  serenade  her  ? 

Lara.     No  music  !     no  more  music  ! 

Don  L.  Why  not  music  ? 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humor 

She  now  is  in.     Music  would  madden  her. 

Don  J.     Try  golden  cymbals. 

Don  L.  Yes,  try  Don  Dinero  ; 

£.  mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 

Lara.     To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I  have  bribed 

her  maid. 

But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 
A  bumper  and  away  ;  for  the  night  wears. 
A  health  to  Preciosa. 

(They  rise  and  drink.) 

All.  Preciosa. 

Lara  (holding  up  his  glass) .    Thou  bright  and 

flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 
Thou  wonderful  magician  !  who  hast  stolen 
My  secret  from  me,  and  mid  sighs  of  passion 
Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery  tongue, 
Her  precious  name  !     O  nevermore  henceforth 
Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine  ;  and  nevermore 
A  mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 
Go  !  keep  my  secret ! 

(Drinks  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.) 
Don  J.  Ite  !  missa  est  ! 

(Scene  closes.) 


SCENE  X. — Street    and    garden    wall.      Night. 
Enter  CRUZADO  and  BARTOLOME. 

Cruz.  This  is  the  garden  wall,  and  above  it, 
yonder,  is  her  house.  The  window  in  which  thou 
seest  the  light  is  her  window.  But  we  will  not 
go  in  now. 

Bart.     Why  not  ? 

Cruz.     Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

Bart.  No  matter ;  we  can  wait.  But  how  is 
this  ?  The  gate  is  bolted.  (Sound  of  guitars 
and  voices  in  a  neighboring  street.)  Hark!  There 
comes  her  lover  with  his  infernal  serenade ! 
Hark! 

SONG. 

Good  night !     Good  night,  beloved  ! 

I  come  to  watch  o'er  thee  ! 
To  be  near  thee.  — to  be  near  thee, 

Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning, 

Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers  1 
Good  night !     Good  night,  beloved, 

While  I  count  the  weary  hours. 

Cruz.     They  are  not  coming  this  way. 
Bart.    Wait,  they  begin  again. 

SONG  (coming  nearer). 

Ah  !  thon  moon  that  shinest 

Argent-clear  above ! 
All  night  long  enlighten 

My  sweet  lady-love  ! 

Moon  that  shinewt, 
All  night  long  enlighten  ! 

Bart.     Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this  way  ! 
Cruz.     Be  quiet.     They  are  passing  down  the 
street. 


SONG  (dying  away). 

The  nuns  in  the  cloister 

Sang  to  each  other ; 
For  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother  ! 
Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother ! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge ! 
Puss  !  puss  !  puss  ! 

Bart.     Follow  that !    follow  that !     Come  with 
me.    Puss  !  puss  ! 

(Exeunt.     On  the  opposite  side  enter  the  COUNT 
OF  LARA  and  gentlemen,  with  FRANCISCO. 

Lara.     The  gate  is  fast.     Over  the  wall,  Fran 
cisco, 

And  draw  the  bolt.     There,  so,  and  so,  and  over. 
Now,  gentlemen,  come  in,  and  help  me  scale 
Yon  balcony.     How  now  ?    Her  light  still  burns. 
Move  warily.     Make  fast  the  gate,  Francisco. 

(Exeunt.    Re-enter  CRUZADO  and  BARTOLOME.  1 

Bart.     They  went  in  at  the  gate.     Hark  !     I 

hear    them   in  the    garden.       (Tries    the   gate.) 

Bolted   again !  Vive   Cristo  !      Follow  me  over 
the  wall. 

(They  climb  the  wall.) 


SCENE  XI. — PRECIOSA'S  bedchamber.  Midnight. 
She  is  sleeping  in  an  arm-chair,  in  an  undress. 
DOLORES  watching  her. 

Dol.     She  sleeps  at  last ! 

( Opens  the  window,  and  listens. ) 

All  silent  in  the  street, 
And  in  the  garden.     Hark  ! 

Prec.   (in  her  sleep).     I  must  go  hence  !     Give 
me  my  cloak  ! 

Dol.     He  comes  !     I  hear  his  footsteps. 

Prec.     Go  tell  them  that  I  cannot  dance  to 
night  ; 

I  am  too  ill !     Look  at  me  !     See  the  fever 
That  burns  upon  my  cheek !     I  must  go  hence. 
I  am  too  weak  to  dance. 

(Signal  from  the  garden.) 

Dol.  (from  the  window).     Who  's  there  ? 

Voice' (from  below).  A  friend. 

Dol.     I  will  undo  the  door.     Wait  till  I  come. 

Prec.     I  must  go  hence.     I  pray  you   do  not 

harm  me ! 

Shame  !  shame  !  to  treat  a  feeble  woman  thus ! 
Be  you  but  kind,  I  will  do  all  things  for  you. 
1  'm  ready  now, — give  me  my  castanets. 
Where  is  Victorian  ?    Oh,  those  hateful  lamps  ! 
They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 
I  cannot  stay.     Hark  !  how  they  mock  at  mef! 
They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents  !    Save  me !    Save 
me ! 

(She  wakes. ) 

How  late  is  it,  Dolores  ? 
j)olf  It  is  midnight. 

Prec.     We  must  be  patient.     Smooth  this  pil 
low  for  me. 

(She  sleeps  again.     Noise  from  the  garden,  and 
voices. ) 

Voice.     Muera ! 

Another  Voice.     O  villains  !  villains  ! 

Lara.  So  !  have  at  you  ! 

Voice.     Take  that ! 

Lara.  O,  I  am  wounded  ! 

Dol.  (shutting  the  window).     Jesu  Maria! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


57 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I. — A  cross-road  through  a  ivood.  In  the 
background  a  distant  village  spire.  VICTO- 
KIAN  and  HYPOUTO,  as  travelling  students, 
with  guitars,  sitting  under  the  trees.  HTPOLITO 
plays  and  sings 


Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Enemy 
Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  ! 

Most  untrue 

To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 

Woe  is  me ! 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah.  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Viet.     Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his  shuttle, 
Is  ever  weaving  into  life's  dull  warp 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers,  and  scenes  Arcadian ; 
Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

Hijp.     Thinking  to   walk  in  those   Arcadian 

pastures, 
Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the  wall. 

SONG  (continued). 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures,  nil  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats, 
Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Viet.     A  very  pretty  song.     I  thank  thee  for 
it. 

Hyp.     It  suits  thy  case. 

Viet.  Indeed,  I  think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it  ? 

Hyp.  Lopez  Maldonado. 

Viet.     In  truth,  a  pretty  song. 

Hyp.  With  much  truth  in  it. 

I  hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ;  and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

Viet.     I  will  forget  her  !     All  dear  recollections 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 
I  will  forget  her  !     But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 
A  voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name. 
And  she  will  say,  "He  was  indeed  my  friend  !  " 
O,  would  I  were  a  soldier,  not  a  scholar, 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of  drums, 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated  trum 
pet, 

The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm, 
And  a  swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf  forever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart ! 

Hyp.     Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid  no 

more ! 
To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  conquer. 

Viet.     Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
I  throw  into  Oblivion's  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me  ;  for,  like  Excalibar, 
With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not  sink. 
There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps  it, 
And  waves  it  in  the  air  ;  and  wailing  voices 
Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

Hyp.  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 
This  is  not  well.     In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 
Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 
To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life's  burden, 
Like  a  dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the  wheels. 


Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 
To  talk  of  dying. 

Viet.  Yet  I  fain  would  die  ! 

To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  have  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks ; 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not, — the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I  were  with  them  ! 

Hyp.  We  shall  all  be  soon. 

Viet.     It  cannot  be  too  soon ;  for  I  am  weary 
Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 
Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as 

strangers  ; 

Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts  ; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles  and  beckons, 
And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 
A  mockery  and  a  jest;  maddened, — confused, — 
Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 

Hyp.  Why  seek  to  know  ? 

Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself, 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

Viet.  I  confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.     But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man, 
Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 
Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off, 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless ! 

Hyp.  Yet  thou  shait  not  perish. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 
Above   thy  head,    through   rifted   clouds,    there 

shines 
A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.     Trust  thy  star ! 

(Mound  of  a  village,  bell  in  the  distance.) 

Viet.     Ave  Maria  !     I  hear  the  sacristan 
Ringing  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  belfry  ! 
A  solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 
Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages, 
And  bids  the  laboring  hind  a-field,  the  shepherd, 
<  Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 
And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand  still, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  unto  the  blessed  Virgin  ! 

llllp.     Amen  !  amen  !     Not  half  a  league  from 

hence 
The  village  lies. 

Viet.  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  blue, 
And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 
Whistles  the  quail.     Come,  let  us  hasten  on. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Public  square  in  the  village  of 
Guadarrama.  The  Ave  Maria  still  tolling. 
A  crowd  of  villagers,  with  their  fiats  in  their 

'  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  In  front,  a  group  of 
Gypsies.  The  bell  rings  a  merrier  peal.  A 
Gypsy  dance.  Enter  PANCIIO,  followed  by 
PEDHO  CRESI'O. 

PaneJio.     Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  and  Gypsy 

thieves ! 

Make  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me  ! 
Pedro  C.     Keep  silence  all !     I  have  an  edict 

here 

From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of  Spain, 
Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 
Which  I  shall  publish  in  the  market-place. 
Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 

(Enter  the   PADKE  Gun  A  at    the    door  of  hit 
cottage.} 


58 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Padre  Cura, 

Good  day  !  and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict  read. 
Padre  O.     Good  day,  and  God  be  with  you  ! 

Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

Pedro  C.     An  act  of  banishment  against  the 
Gypsies !         • 

(Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd. ) 

Pancho.     Silence ! 

Pedro  C.  (reads).     "I  hereby  order  and  com 
mand, 

That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  strangers, 
Known  by  the  name  of  Gypsies,  shall  henceforth 
Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vagabonds 
And  beggars  ;  and  if,  after  seventy  days, 
Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom's  bounds, 
They  shall  receive  a  hundred  lashes  each  ; 
The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears  cut  off ; 
The  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who  takes 

them, 

Or  burnt  as  heretics.     Signed,  I,  the  King." 
Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptized  ! 
You  hear  the  law  !     Obey  and  disappear ! 
Pancho.     And  if  in  seventy  days  you  are  not 

gone, 
Dead  or  alive  I  make  you  all  my  slaves. 

(The  Gyjjsiesgo  out  in  confusion,  showing  signs 
of  fear  and  discontent.     PANCHO  follows.} 

Padre,  C.     A  righteous  law  !     A  very  righteous 

law ! 

Pray  you,  sit  down. 
Pedro  C.  1  thank  you  heartily. 

( They  seat  themselves  on  a  bench  at  the  PADRE 
CUBA'S  door.  Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a 
distance,  approaching  during  the  dialogue 
which  follows.) 

A  very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 

Now    tell    me,   Padre    Cura, — you    know     all 

things, — 
How  came  these  Gypsies  into  Spain  ? 

Padre  C.  Why,  look  you ; 

They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 
And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir  Alcalde, 
As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 
And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says, 
There  are  a  hundred  marks  to  prove  a  Moor 
Is  not  a  Christian,  so  't  is  with  the  Gypsies. 
They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass, 
Never  baptize  their  children,  nor  keep  Lent, 
Nor  see  the  inside  of  a  church, — nor  —  nor  — 

Pedro   C.      Good    reasons,    good,    substantial 

reasons  all ! 

No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 
They  should  be  burnt,  I  see  it  plain  enough, 
They  should  be  burnt. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HTPOLITO playing.) 

Padre  C.     And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Pedro  C.     More  vagrants  !     By  Saint  Lazarus, 
more  vagrants ! 

Hyp.     Good  evening,    gentlemen !      Is    this 
Guadarrama  ? 

Padre  C.     Yes,  Guadarrama,  and    good  even-  i 
ing  to  you. 

Hyp.     We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the  village  ;  ' 
And,   judging    from    your    dress    and    reverend 

mien, 
You  must  be  he. 

Padre  C.  I  am.     Pray,  what 's 

your  pleasure  ? 

Hyp.     We  are  poor  students,  travelling  in  vaca 
tion. 
5Tou  know  this  mark  ? 

(Touching  the  wooden  spoon  in  hishat-band.') 


Padre    C.  (joyfully}.     Ay,  know  it,  and  have 
worn  it. 

Pedro  C.   (aside).     Soup-eaters  !  by  the  mass  \ 

The  worst  of  vagrants  ! 

And  there  's  no  law  against  them.    Sir,  your  ser 
vant.  [Exit. 

Padre  C.     Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 

Hyp-  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I  beheld  your  face, 
I  said  within  myself,  "  This  is  the  man  !  " 
There  is  a  certain  something  in  your  looks, 
A  certain  scholar-like  and  studious  something, — 
You  understand, —  which  cannot  be  mistaken ; 
Which  marks  you  as  a  very  learned  man, 
In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

Viet,  (aside).  What  impudence' 

Hyp.     As  we   approached,  I  said   to  my  conv 

panion, 

"  That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ;  mark  my  words  !" 
Meaning  your  Grace.     "  The  other  man,"  said  I, 
"Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan." 

Padre  C.  Ah  !  said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde  ! 

Hyp .     Indeed  !  you  much  astonish  me  !     His 

air 

Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde's  should  be. 

Padre  C.  That  is  true. 

He  's  out  of  humor  with  some  vagrant  Gypsies, 
Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighborhood. 
There 's  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 

Hyp.     The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our  bold 
ness, 

If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 
We  crave  a  lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre  C.  I  pray  you  I 

You  do  me  honor  !     I  am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble  root 
It  is  not  often  that  I  have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ;  and  Emollit  mores, 
Nee  sinit  esseferos,  Cicero  says. 

Hyp .     'T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not  ? 

Padre  C.  No,  Cicero. 

Hyp.     Your  Grace  is  right.     You  are  the  bet 
ter  scholar. 

Now  what  a  dunce  was  I  to  think  it  Ovid  ! 
But  hang  me  if  it  is  not !      ( Aside. ) 

Padre  C.  Pass  this  way. 

He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  !  no  ceremony.      [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. —  A  room  in  the  PADRE  CURA'S  house. 
Enter  the  PADRE  and  HYFOLITO. 

Padre  C.     So  then,    Sefior,  you    come    from 

Alcala. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     It  was  there  I  studied. 

Hyp.     And  left  behind  an  honored  name,  no 

doubt. 
How  may  I  call  your  Grace  ? 

Padre  C.  Gerdnimo 

De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor's  service. 

Hyp.     Descended  from  the  Marquis    Santil 

lana  ? 
From  the  distinguished  poet  ? 

Padre  C.  From  the  Marquis, 

Not  from  the  poet. 

Hyp.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

Let  me  embrace  you  !     O  some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  !     Yet  once  more  !  — once 

more  ! 

Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Alcala, 
And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly, 
Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  "Alas  ! 
It  was  not  so  in  Santillana's  time  !  " 

Padre  C.     I  did  not  think  my  name  remem 
bered  there. 

Hyp.     More  than  remembered  ;  it  is  idolized. 

Padre  C.     Of  what  professor  speak  you  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


59 


Hyp.  Timoneda. 

Padre  C.     I  don't  remember  any  Timoneda. 
Hyp.     A    grave    and    sombre    man,     whose 

beetling  brow 

O'erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech 
As  rocks  o'er  rivers  hang.     Have  you   forgotten  ? 
Padre  (J.      Indeed,    I  have.      O,    those    were 

pleasant  days, 

Those  college  days  !     I  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes  ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends  ! 
I  've  turned  my  back   on  what  was  then   before 

me ; 

And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  companions 
Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 
Do  you  remember  Cueva  ? 
Hyp.  Cueva  ?  Cueva  ? 

Padre  C.     Fool  that  I  am  !       He  was  before 

your  time. 

You  're  a  mere  boy,  and  I  am  an  old  man. 
Hyp.     I    should  not  like  to  try   my  strength 

with  you. 
Padre  C.    Well,  well.     But  I  forget ;  you  must 

be  hungry. 
Martina  !  ho  !  Martina  !     'T  is  my  niece. 

(Enter  MARTINA.  ) 

Hyp.     You  may  be  proud  of  such   a  niece  as 

that. 

I  wish  I  had  a  niece.     Emollit  mores.     (Aside). 
He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Mart.  Servant,  sir. 

Padre  C.      This   gentleman  is   hungry.      See 

thou  to  it. 
Let  us  have  supper. 

Mart.  'T  will  be  ready  soon. 

Padre  C.     And  bring  a   bottle  of  my  Val-de- 

Pefias 

Out  of  the  cellar.     Stay  ;  I  '11  go  myself. 
Pray  you,  Seilor,  excuse  me.  [Exit. 

Hyp.  Hist !    Martina  ! 

One  word  with  you.     Bless  me  !  what  handsome 

eyes  ! 

To-day  there  have  been  Gypsies  in  the  village 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mart.     There  have  been  Gypsies  here. 

Hyp.     Yes,  and  have  told  your  fortune. 

Mart,  (embarrassed).     Told  my  fortune  ? 

Hyp.     Yes,  yes ;  I  know  they  did.     Give   me 

your  hand. 
I '11  tell  you  what   they  said.     They  said,  —  they 

said, 

The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a  clown, 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.     Was  it  not  ? 

Mart,   (surprised}.     How  know  you  that  ? 

Hyp.  O,  I  know  more  than  that. 

What  a  soft,  little  hand  !     And  then  they  said, 
A  cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall 
And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry  you, 
And  you  should  be  a  lady.     Was  it  not  ? 
He  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 
( Tries  to  kiss  her.     She  runs  off.    Enter  VICTOR 
IAN,  with  a  letter.) 

Viet.     The  muleteer  has  come. 

Hyp.  So  soon  ? 

Viet.  I  found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door, 
And,  from  a  pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm's   length,  drinking  the  blood-red 
wine. 

Hyp.     What  news  from  Court  ? 

Viet.  He  brought  this  letter  only. 

(Reads. ) 

O  cursed  perfidy  !     Why  did  I  let 

That  lying  tongue  deceive  me  !     Preciosa, 

Sweet  Preciosa !  how  art  thou  avenged  ! 


Hyp.     What  news  is  this,  that  makes  thy  cheek 

turn  pale, 
And  thy  hand  tremble  ? 

Viet.  O,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  worthless  villain  ! 

Hyp.     That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Viet.  He  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 
The  love  of  Preciosa.     Not  succeeding, 
He  swore  to  be  revenged ;  and  set  on  foot 
A  plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 
She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the  stage, 
Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of ;  and,  once  more  a  beggar, 
She  roams  a  wanderer  over  God's  green  earth, 
Housing  with  Gypsies ! 

Hyp.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd  swaina 
Desperate  with  love,  like  Gasper  Gil's  Diana. 
Redit  et  Virgo  / 

Viet.  Dear  Hypolito, 

How  have  I  wronged  that  meek,  confiding  heart ! 
I  will  go  seek  for  her  ;  and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I've  done  her  ! 

Hyp.  O  beware  ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o'er  again. 

Viet.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 
I  will  confess  my  weakness, — I  still  love  her  ! 
Still  fondly  love  her ! 

(Enter  the  PADRE  CURA.) 

Hyp.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gypsies  in  the  neighborhood  V 
Padre  C.  Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 
Viet.  Kind  Heaven, 

I  thank  thee  !     She  is  found  !  is  found  again  ! 
Hyp.     And  have  they  with  them  a  pale,  beauti 
ful  girl, 
Called  Preciosa  ? 

Padre  C.  Ay,  a  pretty  girl. 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hyp.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger, 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day's  journey. 

Padre  0.     Then,  pray  you,  come  this  way.  The 

supper  waits.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV — A  post-house  on  the  road  to  /Segovia, 
not  far  from  the  milage  of  Gundarrama.  Enter 
CHISPA,  cracking  a  ivhip,  and  singing  the  ca- 
chucha. 

Ghispa.  Halloo  !  Don  Fulano  !  Let  us  have 
horses,  and  quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chispa  !  what  a 
dog's  life  dost  thou  lead  !  I  thought,  when  I  left 
my  old  master  Victorian,  the  student,  to  serve 
my  new  master  Don  Carlos,  the  gentleman,  that 
I,  too,  should  lead  the  life  of  a  gentleman  ;  should 
go  to  bed  early,  and  get  up  late.  For  when  the 
abbot  plays  cards,  what  can  you  expect  of  the 
friars  ?  But,  in  running  away  from  the  thunder, 
I  have  run  into  the  lightning.  Here  I  am  in  hot 
chase  after  my  master  and  his  Gypsy  girl.  And 
a  good  beginning  of  the  week  it  is,  as  he  said  who 
was  hanged  on  Monday  morning. 

(Enter  DON  CARLOS.) 

Don  ('.     Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 

Chispa.  I  should  think  not,  for  the  hostler 
seems  to  be  asleep.  Ho  !  within  there  !  Horses  ! 
horses  !  horses  !  (He  knocks  at  the  gate  with  his 
whip,  and  en  ter  MOSQUITO,  putlinr/  on  his  jacket. ) 

Mosq.  Pray,  have  a  little  patience.  I  'm  not 
a  musket. 

Chispa.  Health  and  pi  stare  en  s  !  I'm  glad  to 
see  you  come  on  dancing,  padre  !  Pray,  what 's 
the  news  ? 

Afosq.  You  cannot  have  fresh  horses ;  because 
there  are  none. 


60 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Chispa.  Cachiporra  !  Throw  that  bone  to  an 
other  dog.  Do  I  look  like  your  aunt  ? 

Mosq.     No  ;  she  has  a  beard. 

Chispa.     Go  to  !  go  to  ! 

Mosq.     Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  Yes ;  and  going  to  Estramadura.  Get 
us  horses. 

Moi>q.     What 's  the  news  at  Court  ? 

Chispa.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I  am  go 
ing  to  set  up  a  coach,  and  I  have  already  bought 
the  whip. 

(Strikes  him  round  the  legs.~) 

Mosq.     Oh !  oh !  you  hurt  me  ! 

Don  C.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us  have 
horses.  (Gives  money  to  MOSQUITO.)  It  is  al 
most  dark  ;  and  we  are  in  haste.  But  tell  me,  has 
a  band  of  Gypsies  passed  this  way  of  late  ? 

Mosq.  Yes ;  and  they  are  still  in  the  neighbor 
hood. 

Don  C.     And  where  ? 

Mosq.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the  woods 
near  Guadarrama.  [Exit. 

Don  C.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will  visit  the 
Gypsy  camp. 

Chispa.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil  eye  ? 
Have  you  a  stag's  horn  with  you  ? 

Don  C.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the  night  at 
the  village. 

Chispa.  And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of  Hernan 
Daza,  nine  under  one  blanket. 

Don  C.  I  hope  we  may  find  the  Preciosa 
among  them. 

Chispa.     Among  the  Squires  ? 

Don  C.     No ;  among  the  Gpysies,  blockhead  ! 

Chispa.  I  hope  we  may  ;  for  we  are  giving  our 
selves  trouble  enough  on  her  account.  Don't  you 
think  so?  However,  there  is  no  catching  trout 
without  wetting  one's  trousers.  Yonder  come  the 
horses.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — The  Gypsy  camp  in  the  forest. 
Night.  Gypsies  working  at  a  forge.  Others  play 
ing  cards  by  the  firelight. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand, 
With  a  crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand, 
Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea, 
O  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee,  flee,  flee  ? 
O  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee  ? 

First  Gypsy  (playing).  Down  with  your  John- 
Dorados,  my  pigeon.  Down  with  your  John-Dora 
dos,  and  let  us  make  an  end. 

•Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran  ; 
God  send  the  Gypsy  lassie  here, 

And  not  the  Gypsy  man. 

First  Gypsy  (playing').  There  you  are  in  your 
morocco ! 

Second  Gypsy.  One  more  game.  The  Alcalde's 
doves  against  the  Padre  Cura's  new  moon. 

First  Gypsy.     Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 

To  show  her  silver  flame, 
There  came  to  him  no  Gypsy  man,  • 

The  Gypsy  lassie  came. 

(Enter  BELTRAN  CRUZ  ADO.) 

Crnz.  Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and  Rastil- 
Jeros ;  leave  work,  leave  play ;  listen  to  your 
orders  for  the  night.  (Speaking  to  the  right.) 
You  will  get  you  to  the  village,  mark  you,  by  the 
Btone  cross. 


Gypsies.     Ay ! 

Cruz,  (to  the  left).  And  you,  by  the  pole  with 
the  hermit's  head  upon  it. 

Gypsies.     Ay ! 

Crnz.  As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets  are  out, 
in  with  you,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten  command 
ments,  under  the  sly,  and  Saint  Martin  asleep. 
D'ye  hear  ? 

Gypsies.     Ay ! 

Cruz.  Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if  you 
see  a  goblin  or  a  papagayo,  take  to  your  trampers. 
Vineyards  and  Dancing  John  is  the  word.  Am  I 
comprehended  ? 

Gypsies.    Ay  !  ay ! 

Cruz.     Away,  then  ! 

(Exeunt  severally.  CRUZADO  walks  up  the  stngr, 
and  disappears  among  the  trees.  Enter  PRE 
CIOSA.  ) 

Free.     How  strangely  gleams  through  the  gi 
gantic  trees 
The  red  light  of  the  forge !     Wild,    beckoning 

shadows 

Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering  flame, 
Then  flitting  into  darkness  !     So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each  other, 
My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a  being 
As  the'  light  does  the  shadow.     Woe  is  me  ! 
How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely  ! 

(BARTOLOME  rushes  in. ) 

Bart.     Ho  !  Preciosa  ! 

Prec.  O  Bartolome  ! 

Thou  here  ? 

Bart.  Lo  !   I  am  here. 

Prec.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Bart.      From  the   rough   ridges  of   the    wild 

Sierra, 

From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger,  thirst, 
And  fever  !  Like  a  wild  wolf  to  the  sheepfold 
Come  I  for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Free  O  touch  me  not ! 

The  Count  of  Lara's  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara's  curse  is  on  thy  soul ! 
Do  not  come  near  me  !    Pray,  begone  from  here  ! 
Thou  art  in  danger  !     They  have  set  a  price 
Upon  thy  head ! 

Bart.  Ay,  and  I've  wandered  long 

Among  the  mountains ;  and  for  many  days 
Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the  rough  swine 
herd's. 

The  wind   and  rain  have  been  my  sole  compan 
ions. 

I  shouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy  name, 
And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 
Till  I  grew  mad.     I  could  not  stay  from  thee, 
And  I  am  here  !     Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 

Prec.     Betray  thee  ?    I  betray  thee  ? 

Bart.  Preciosa ! 

I  come  for  thee  !  for  thee  I  thus  brave  death  ! 
Fly  with  me  o'er  the  borders  of  this  realm  ! 
Fly  with  me ! 

Prec.  Speak  of  that  no  more.    '. 

cannot. 
I  'm  thine  no  longer. 

Bart.  O,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children !  how  we  played  together, 
How  we  grew  up  together ;  how  we  plighted 
Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  childhood  ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has  come. 
I  'm  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a  wolf  ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise. 

Prec.  'T  was  my  father's  promise, 

Not  mine.     I  never  gave  my  heart  to  thee, 
Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

Bart.  False  tongue  of  woman ! 

And  heart  more  false  ! 

Prec.  Nay,  listen  unto  me 

I  will  speak  frankly.    I  have  never  loved  thee ; 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


61 


I  cannot  love  thee.     This  is  not  my  fault, 

It  is  my  destiny.     Thou  art  a  man 

Restless  and  violent.     What  wouldst  thou  with 

me, 

A  feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to  live, 
Whose  heart  is  broken  ?     Seek  another  wife, 
Better  than  I,  and  fairer  ;  and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her  from 

thee. 

Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 
I  never  sought  thy  love ;  never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.     Yet  I  pity  thee, 
And  most  of  all  I  pity  thy  wild  heart, 
That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of  blood. 
Beware,  beware  of  that. 

Bart.  For  thy  dear  sake 

I  will  be  gentle.     Thou  shalt  teach  me  patience. 

Free.     Then  take  this  farewell,  and  depart  in 

peace. 
Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

Bart.  Come,  come  with  me. 

Free.     Hark  !     I  hear  footsteps. 

Bart.  I  entreat  thee,  come  ! 

Free.     Away  !     It  is  in  vain. 

Bart.  Wilt  thou  not  come  'i 

Free.     Never  ! 

Bart.  Then  woe,  eternal  woe, 

upon  thee ! 
Thou  shalt  not  be  another's.     Thou  shalt  die. 

[Exit. 

Free.     All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  hour  ! 

Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me  ! 

Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me  ! 

Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me  ! 

Yet  why  should  I  fear  death  ?    What  is  it  to  die  '? 

To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow, 

To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkind- 
ness, 

All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 

And  be  at  rest  forever  !     O  dull  heart, 

Be  of  good  cheer  !  When  thou  shalt  cease  to 
beat, 

Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  complain  ! 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO  behind.) 

Viet.     'T  is   she  !     Behold,  how  beautiful  she 

stands 
Under  the  tent-like  trees  ! 

Hyp.  A  woodland  nymph  ! 

Viet.     I  pray  thee,  stand  aside.     Leave  me. 
Hyp.  Be  wary. 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Viet,     (disguising  his  voice).     Hist !     Gypsy  ! 
Free      (aside,  with  emotion}.    That  voice!  that 

voice  from  heaven  !     O  speak  again  ! 
Who  is  it  calls  ? 

Viet.  A  friend. 

Free,     (aside) .  'T  is  he  !  'T  is  he  ! 

f  thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast  heard  my 

prayer, 

i^nd  sent  me  thiig  protector  !  Now  be  strong, 
Be  strong,  my  heart !  I  must  dissemble  here. 
false  friend  or  true  ? 

Viet.  A  true  friend  to  the  true ; 

Fear  not ;    come  hither.      So  ;    can  you  tell  for 
tunes  ? 
Free.     Not  in  the  dark.     Come  nearer  to  the 

fire. 

Give  me  your  hand.     It  is  not  crossed,  I  see. 
Viet,     (putting  apiece  of  gold  into  her  hand.) 

There  is  the  cross. 

Free.  Is  't  silver. 

Viet.  No,  't  is  gold. 

Free.     There  's  a  fair  lady  at  the  Court,  who 

loves  you, 
And  for  yourself  alone. 

Viet.  Fie  !  the  old  story ! 

Tell  me  a  better  fortune  for  my  money  ; 
Not  this  old  woman's  tale  ! 


Free.  You  are  passionate  ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your  blood 
Has  marred  your  fortune.     Yes  ;  I  see  it  now ; 
The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many  marks. 
Shame  !  shame  !     O  you  have  wronged  the  maid 

who  loved  you  ! 
How  could  you  do  it  'i 

Viet.  I  never  loved  a  maid  ; 

For  she  I  loved  was  then  a  maid  no  more. 

Free.     How  know  you  that  V 

Viet.  A  little  bird  in  the  air 

Whispered  the  secret. 

Free.  There,  take  back  your  gold  ! 

Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a  deceiver's  hand ! 
There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  ! 
Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been  abused ; 
And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mending  hers. 
Viet,  (aside).     How  like  an  angel's  speaks  the 

tongue  of  woman, 

When  pleading  in  another's  cause  her  own ! 
That  is  a  pretty  ring  upon  your  ringer. 
Pray  give  it  me.  {Tries  to  take  the  ring.) 

Free  No ;  never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken  ! 

Viet.  Why,  't  is  but  a  ring. 

I'll  give  it  back  to  you  ;  or,  if  I  keep  it, 
Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty  such. 

Free.     Why  would  you  have  this  ring  V 
Viet.  A  traveller's  fancy, 

A  whim,  and  nothing  more.    I  would  fain  keep  it 
As  a  memento  of  the  Gypsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a  widowed  maid. 
Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 

Free.  No,  never  !  never  ! 

I  will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I  die ; 
But  bid  my  nurse  fold  my  pale  fingers  thus, 
That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.     'T  is  a  token 
Of  a  beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

Viet.  How '?  dead  V 

Free.     Yes  ;  dead  to  me ;  and  worse  than  dead. 
He  is  estranged  !     And  yet  I  keep  this  ring. 
I  will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  hereafter, 
To  prove  to  him  that  I  was  never  false. 

Viet,     (aside).     Be   still,   my   swelling  heart! 

one  moment,  still ! 

Why,  't  is  the  folly  of  a  love-sick  girl. 
Come,  give  it  me,  or  I  will  say  't  is  mine, 
And  that  you  stole  it. 

Free.  O,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a  falsehood  ! 

Viet.  I  not  dare  ? 

Look  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is  aught 
I  have  riot  dared,  I  would  not  dare  for  thee  ! 

(She  rushes  into  his  arms. ) 

Free.     'T  is  thou  !  't  is  thou  !     Yes  ;    yes  ;  my 

heart's  elected  ! 

My  dearest-dear  Victorian  !  my  soul's  heaven  ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ?     Why  didst  thou 

leave  me  ? 

Viet.     Ask  me  not  now,  my  dearest  Preciosa. 
Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted  ! 
Free.     Hadst  thou  not  come — 
Viet.     I  pray  thee,  do  not  chide  me  ! 
Free.      I    should    have   perished   here   among 

these  Gypsies. 
Viet.     Forgive  me,  sweet !   for  what   I  made 

thee  suffer. 
Think'st   thou  this  heart  could  feel  a  moment's 

j°vi 

Thou  being  absent '?     O,  believe  it  not ! 
Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  I  have  not  slept, 
For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I  did  to  thee! 
Dost  thou  forgive   me  ?      Say,  wilt  thou  forgive 

me? 
Free.     I  have  forgiven  thcc.     Ere  those  words 

of  anger 
Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down  against 

thee, 
I  had  forgiven  thee. 


63 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.  •  I  'm  the  veriest  fool 

That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed  thee  false. 
It  was  the  Count  of  Lara — 

Prec.  That  bad  man 

Has  worked  me  harm  enough.     Hast  thou   not 
heard — 

Viet.     I  have  heard  all.     And  yet  speak  on, 

speak  on  ! 

Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I  am  happy  ; 
For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incantation, 
Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 
Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart, 
Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own. 

(They  walk  aside.) 

Hyp.     All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral  poets, 
All  passionate  love  scenes  in  the  best  romances, 
All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage, 
All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of  things, 
Have   been  surpassed    here  by  my  friend,  the 

student, 
And  this  sweet  Gypsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa  ! 

Prec.     Senor  Hypolito  !     I  kiss  your  hand. 
Pray,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune  ? 

Hyp.  Not  to-night ; 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Victorian, 
And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn, 
My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now  till  Christ 
mas. 

Chispa  (within).    What  ho  !    the  Gypsies,  ho ! 

Beltran  Cruzado ! 
Halloo !  halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  ! 

(Enters  booted,  with  a  whip  and  lantern.) 

Viet.  What  now  ? 

Why    such    a   fearful    din  ?     Hast  thou  been 
robbed  ? 

Chispa.     Ay,  robbed  and  murdered  ;  and  good 

evening  to  you, 
My  worthy  masters. 

Viet.     Speak ;  what  brings  thee  here  ? 

Chispa  (to  PRECIOSA).    Good  news  from  Court ; 

good  news  ! .   Beltran  Cruzado, 
The  Count  of  the  Gale's,  is  not  your  father, 
But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.     You  are  no  more  a  Gypsy. 

Viet.     Strange  as  a  Moorish  tale  ! 

Chispa.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health, 
As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rams. 

Viet.     Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Chispa.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 
His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Prec.     Is  this  a  dream  ?    O,  if  it  be  a  dream, 
Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet ! 
Repeat  thy  story !     Say  I  'm  not  deceived  ! 
Say  that  I  do  not  dream  !     I  am  awake  ; 
This  is  the  Gypsy  camp ;  this  is  Victorian, 
And  this  his  friend,  Hypolito  !     Speak  !  speak  ! 
Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream ! 

Viet.     It  is  a  dream,  sweet   child !  a   waking 

dream, 

A  blissful  certainty,  a  vision  bright 
Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on  earth 
Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.     Now   art  thou 

rich, 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good ; 
And  I  am  now  the  beggar. 

Prec.  (giving  him  her  hand).     I  have  still 
A  hand  to  give. 

Chispa  (aside).     And  I  have  two  to  take. 
I  've  heard  my   grandmother   say,  that  Heaven 

gives  almonds 
To   those   who   have  no  teeth.     That 's  nuts  to 

crack. 
I  've  teeth    to    spare,   but    where    shall    I    find 

almonds  ? 


Viet.     What  more  of  this  strange  story  ? 

Chispa.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the  village 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 
The  proofs  of  what  I  tell  you.     The  old  hag, 
Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has  confessed  ; 
And  probably  they  '11  hang  her  for  the  crime, 
To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 

Viet.     No ;  let  it  be  a  day  of  general  joy ; 
Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not  late. 
Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hyp.  So  farewell, 

The  student's  wandering  life  !     Sweet  serenades, 
Sung  under  ladies'  windows  in  the  night, 
And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful ! 
To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala, 
To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth, 
The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 
And  leaves  the  Gypsy  with  the  Spanish  Student. 


SCENE  VI. — A  pass  in  the  Guadarrama  moun 
tains.  Early  morning.  A  muleteer  crosses  the 
stage,  sitting  sideways  on  hismule,  and  lighting 
a  paper  cigar  withjlint  and  steel. 


If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 
'T  is  the  break  of  day,  and'  we  must  away, 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  corne  with  thy  naked  feet , 
We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass, 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet 

(Disappears  down  the  pass.      Enter  a  Monk.     A 
shepherd  appears  on  the  rocks  above. ) 

Monk.     Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.     Ola !    good 

man  ! 

Shep.     Ola ! 

Monk.     Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  ? 
Shep.     It  is,  your  reverence. 
Monk.     How  far  is  it  ? 
Shep.     I  do  not  know. 

Monk.     What  is  that  yonder  in  the  valley  ? 
Shep.     San  Ildefonso. 
Monk.     A  long  way  to  breakfast. 
Shep.     Ay,  marry. 

Monk.     Are  there  robbers  in  these  mountains  ? 
Shep.     Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 
Monk.     What  ? 
Shep.     Wolves. 

Monk.     Santa  Maria !     Come  with  me  to  San 
Ildefonso,  and  thou  shalt  be  well  rewarded. 
Shep.     What  wilt  thou  give  me  ? 
Monk.     An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benediction. 

(They  disappear.  A  mounted  Contrabandista 
passes,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  and  a  gun  at  his 
saddle-bow.  He  goes  down  the  pass  singing. ' 


Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 

And  I  march  me  hurried,  worried  ! 

Onward,  cabillito  mio, 

With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead ! 

Onward,  for  here  comes  the  Honda, 

And  I  hear  their  rifles  crack ! 

Ay,  ja!6o  1     Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 

Ay,  ja!6o  !    They  cross  our  track. 

(Song  dies  away.  Enter  PRECIOSA,  on  horse 
back,  attended  by  VICTORIAN,  HYPOLITO,  DON 
CARLOS,  and  CHISPA,  on  foot,  and  armed.) 

Viet .     This  is  the  highest  point.     Here  let  us 
rest. 


CARILLON. 


63 


See,  Preciosa,  see^aovv  all  about  us 

Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  mountains 

Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 

O  glorious  sight ! 

free.  Most  beautiful  indeed 

Hyp.     Most  wonderful ! 

Viet.  And  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  halberds, 
San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries. 
Sends  up  a  salutation  to  the  morn, 
As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
And  shouted  victory ! 

Prec.  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  ? 

Viet.  At  a  great  distance  yonder. 

Dost  thou  not  see  it  ? 

Prec.  No.     I  do  not  see  it. 

Viet.     The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the  horizon's 

edge. 
There,  yonder  ! 

Hyp.  'T  is  a  notable  old  town, 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 
And  an  Alcazar,  builded  by  the  Moors, 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Bias 
Was  fed  on  Pan  del  Rey.     O,  many  a  time 
Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  I  looked 
Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the  Eresma, 
That,  like  a  serpent  through  the  valley  creeping, 
Glides  at  its  foot. 

Prec.  O  yes  !  I  see  it  now, 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart  than  with  mine  eyes, 
t§o  faint  it  is.     And  all  my  thoughts  sail  thither, 
Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  forward 

urged 

Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as  in 
The  Eastern  Tale,  against  the  wind  and  tide 
Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic  Moun 
tains, 
And  there  were  wrecked,  and  perished  in  the  sea  ! 

(She  weeps.) 

Viet.     O  gentle  spirit !     Thou  didst  bear  un 
moved 


Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fate  ! 
But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on  thee 
Melts  thee  to  tears  !     O,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine  !  and  it  shall  faint  no  more, 
Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger  ;  but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

Prec.  Stay  no  longer  ! 

My  father  waits.     Methinks  I  see  him  there, 
Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now  watching 
Each  sound  of  wheels  or  footfall  in  the  street, 
And  saving,    "Hark!   she  comes!"    O  father! 
father ! 

(They  descend  the  pass.     CHISPA   remains  be 
hind.) 

Chispa.  I  have  a  father,  too,  but  he  is  a  dead 
one.  Alas  and  alack-a-day  !  Poor  was  I  born, 
and  poor  do  I  remain.  I  neither  win  nor  lose. 
Thus  I  wag  through  the  world,  half  the  time  on 
foot,  and  the  other  half  walking  ;  and  always  as 
merry  as  a  thunder-storm  in  the  night.  And  so 
we  plough  along,  as  the  fly  said  to  the  ox.  Who 
knows  what  may  happen  ''.  Patience,  and  shuffle 
the  cards  !  I  am  not  yet  so  bald  that  you  can  see 
my  brains ;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall  some 
day  go  to  Rome,  and  come  back  Saint  Peter. 
Benedicite !  [Exit. 

(A  pause.     Then  enter  BARTOLOM^  wildly,  as  if 
in  pursuit,  with  a  carbine  in  his  hand.) 

Bart.     They  passed  this  way  !     I  hear  their 

horses'  hoofs ! 

Yonder  I  see  them  !     Come,  sweet  caramillo, 
This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gypsy's  last ! 

(Fires  down  the  pass.) 

Ha  !  ha  !     Well  whistled,  my  sweet  caramillo ! 
Well  whistled  !• — I  have  missed  her  ! — O  my  God  ! 

(The  shot  is  returned.     BAKTOLOME/«^S.) 


THE    BELFET    OF    BRUGES, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


CARILLON. 

IN  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 


But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling ; 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes. 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 
But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 


Intermingled  with  the  song* 
Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long; 
Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 
The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 
And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 
Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


the  marketplace  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 

IN  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry 

old  and  brown ; 
Thrice   consumed  and   thrice  rebuilded,  still  it 

watches  o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty 

tower  I  stood, 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the 

weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded,  and  with 

streams  and  vapors  gray, 
Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,   round  and 

vast  the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.  From  its  chim 
neys,  here  and  there, 

Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  van 
ished,  ghost-like,  into  air. 


Not  a  sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early 

morning  hour, 
But  I  heard  a  heart  of  iron  beating  in  the  ancient 

tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang  ths 

swallows  wild  and  high  ; 
And  the    world,    beneath  me  sleeping,    seemed 

more  distant  than  the  sky. 

Then  most  musical  and   solemn,  bringing  back 

the  olden  times, 
With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the 

melancholy  chimes, 

Like  the  psalms  from  some   old  cloister,  when 

the  nuns  sing  in  their  choir ; 
And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like  the 

chanting  of  a  friar. 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 


65 


Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phantoms 

filled  my  brain ; 
They  who  live  in  history  only   seemed  to  walk 

the  earth  again ; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,— mighty  Baldwin 

Bras  de  Fer, 
Lyderick  du   Bucq  and  Cressy  Philip,  Guy  de 

Dampierre. 

I  beheld  the   pageants    splendid   that    adorned 

those  days  of  old  ; 
Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights  who 

bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep- 
laden  argosies ; 

Ministers  from  twenty  nations  :  more  than  royal 
pomp  and  ease. 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on 

the  ground ; 
I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk 

and  hound ; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a  duke 

slept  with  the  queen, 
And  the  armed  guard   around   them,    and    the 

sword  unsheathed  between. 


I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and 

Juliers  bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody   battle  of 

the  Spurs  of  Gold  ; 

Saw  the    fight  at  Minnewater,   saw  the  White 

Hoods  moving  west, 
Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden 

Dragon's  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land 
with  terror  smote  ; 

And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the  toc 
sin's  throat; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  aiii 

dike  of  sand, 
"  I  am  Roland  !     I  am  Roland  !    there  is  victory 

in  the  land  !" 

Then   the   sound   of  drums   aroused   me.      The 

awakened  city's  roar 
Chased  the  phantoms  I  had  summoned  back  into 

their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes ;  and,  before 
I  was  aware, 

Lo  !  the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun- 
illumined  square. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

Tins  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town  ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they  : 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  !" 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 


Through  the  elosed  blinds  the  golden  sua 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas  !  the  place  seems  changed ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 

Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 
Subdue  the  lighb  of  noon,  and  breathe 

A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. —NUREMBERG. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When    the    death-angel  touches    those    swift 
keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before 

us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's 
song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild    war-drums   made  of   serpent's 
skin; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

The    bursting     shell,     the     gateway    wrenched 
asunder, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with 

terror. 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and 

courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The    echoing   sounds    grow    fainter  and   then 

cease ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I    hear    once    more    the  voice  of   Christ  say, 
"Peace! " 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast   of    War's    great  organ   shakes  the 
skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG. 

IN  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 

the  ancient,  stands. 


Quaint   old   town   of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old 

town  of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng  : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 

rough  and  bold, 
Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying, 

centuries  old ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in 

their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 

through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many 

an  iron  band, 
Stands    the    mighty    linden    planted  by   Queen 

Cunigunde's  hand ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old  he 
roic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 
praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 
world  of  Art : 

Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  stand 
ing  in  the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 

own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 

his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from 

age  to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of 

sculpture  rare. 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through 

the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple, 

reverent  heart. 
Lived  and  labored  AlbrechtDurer,  the  Evangelist 

of  Art; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with 

busy  hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 

Better  Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone 

where  he  lies ; 
Dead    he  is  not,    but   departed, — for   the  artist 

never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once 

has  breathed  its  air  ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude 

poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came  they  to 

the  friendly  guild, 
Building    nests    in   Fame's   great  temple,  as  in 

spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme, 
And    the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to 

the  anvil's  chime ; 


THE  NORMAN  BARON.— RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


67 


Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes 

the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of 

the  loom. 

Hero  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the 

gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios 

sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely 

sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 

the  door ; 

Painted    by    some    humble    artist,  as  in  Adam 

Puschman's  song. 
As  the    old  man    gray    and    dove-like,  with  his 

great  beard  white  and  long. 

Ana  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown 

his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale' from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's 

antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my 

dreamy  eye 
Wave    these    mingled  shapes  and  figures,  like  a 

faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee 

the  world's  regard  ; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Dlirer,  and  Hans  Sachs 

thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,   O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region 

far  away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in 

thought  his  careless  lay  : 

Gathering    from    the   pavement's   crevice,    as   a 

floweret  of  the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labor, — the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 

Dans  les  moments  de  la  vie  ou  la  reflexion  devient 
plus  calme  et  plus  profonde.  oil  1'interet  et  i'avarice  par- 
lent  moins  haut  que  la  ration,  dans  les  instants  de  cha 
grin  domestique,  de  maladie,  et  de  peril  de  mort,  les  no 
bles  se  repentirent  de  posseder  des  serfs,  comme  d'une 
chose  pen  agroable  a  Dieu,  qui  avait  eree  tons  les 
homines  a  son  image. 

THIERRY,    ConqiiSte  de  r Angleterre. 

Ix  his  chamber,  weak  and  dving, 
Was  the  Norman  baron  lying  ; 
Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered 
And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  ih  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster, 

From  the  missal  on  his  knee  ; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing. 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighboring  kloster 
Rang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail ; 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly. 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits ; 


And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

"Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger  ! 
King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free  !  " 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 
And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"Miserere,  Domine  !  " 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 
Every  serf  born  to  his  manor. 
All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures, 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen  !  " 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal. 

Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 
Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 
At  the  twisted  brooks ; 
He  can  feel  the  cool 
Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 


TO  A  CHILD. 


His  fevered  brain 
Grows  calm  again, 
And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  underground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 


Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

DEAR  child  !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's  knee, 

With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles, 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 

Whose  figures  grace, 

With  many  a  grotesque  form  and  face, 

The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 

The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 

The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 

With  bearded  lip  and  chin  ; 

And,  leaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 

Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 

The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  proud  command 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 

The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 

Making  a  merry  tune  ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 

That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 

Dashed  it  on  Coromandel's  sand  ! 

Those  silver  bells 

Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 

Of  darksome  mines, 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 

Beneath  huge  Chimborazo's  base, 

Or  Potosi's  o'erhanging  pines  ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  O  little   child, 

Through  many  a  danger  and  escape, 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneath  a  burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat, 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 

The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 

But,  lo  !  thy  door  is  left  ajar  ! 

Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 

Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother's  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor, 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before  ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 

Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice, 

Makes  the  old  walls 

Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 

With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 

O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 

No  shadows  of  sadness 

From  the  sombre  background  of  memory  start. 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 


69 


Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
Cp  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread  ; 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Out,  out  !  into  the  open  air  ! 

Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 

Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 

I  see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 

Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 

With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they  ; 

And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 

Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 

As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage-wheels  I  trace  ; 

And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 

Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 

Ah.  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 

These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm  ! 

What !  tired  already  !  with  those  suppliant  looks, 

And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a  poet's  books, 

Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 

Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose  ! 

This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 

With  its  o'erhanging  golden  canopy 

Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 

And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 

Shall  for  a  season  be  our  place  of  rest. 

Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole's  pendent  nest, 

From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken  wing, 

By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 

Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam  ; 

A  sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream, 

And  like  it,  to  a  sea  as  wide  and  deep, 

Thou  drif  test  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep. 

0  child  !  O  new-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city  !  on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 
Like  a  celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 
And  with  thy  little  hand 
Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 
Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

1  see  its  valves  expand, 
As  at  the  touch  of  Fate  ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 

Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a  fragile  bark. 

Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 
Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 
Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears  ; 
A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 
And  widening  outward  into  night 
The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 


And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere ; 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 

A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 

Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  !  if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil, — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain. 
Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain, 
Like  a  jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power, — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 

On  thy  advancing  steps  await, 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 

To  linger  by  the  laborer's  side ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 

To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 

Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 

Without  reward  ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 

The  wisdom  early  to  discern 

True  beauty  in  utility  ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 

And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 

The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 

Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue. 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chordedlyre. 

Enough  !  I  will  not  play  the  Seer  ; 
I  will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 
For,  like  Acestes'  shaft  of  old, 
The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 

I  SAW,  as  in  a  dream  sublime, 

The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 

O'  er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended  ; 

And  day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light, 

Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 

While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  night 

Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld, 
In  that  bright  vision  I  beheld 
Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 
I  saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 
Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire, 
The  Samian's  great  zEolian  lyre, 
Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 
From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 
And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 
Not  only  could  I  see,  but  hear, 
Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 
In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere, 
From  Dian's  circle  light  and  near, 
Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 


70 


THE  BRIDGE.— TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 


Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of  snows, 
Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 
And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 
Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 

Beneath  the  sky 's  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a  march, 
And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 
Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 
And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 
The  kindling  constellations  shone. 
Begirt  with  many  a  blazing  star, 
Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 
Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast  ! 
His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side, 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion's  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 

The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint ; 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 
As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 
As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars, 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace, 

And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 

She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 

Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm  ! 

And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 

Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 

Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 

His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 

The  forehead  of  the  bull ;  but  he 

Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 

When,  blinded  by  (Enopion, 

He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge, 

And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 

Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 

An  angel  with  a  trumpet  said, 

"  Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !  " 

And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 

Its  music  on  another's  strings, 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 

Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 

Re-echoed  down  the  burning  chords, — 

"Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er !  " 


THE  BRIDGE. 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 
Of  that   lovely  night  in  June, 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 
Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 


Among  the  long,  black  rafters, 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 


through  them, 


And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 
The  seaweed  floated  wide. 


As,  sweeping  and  eddying 
Rose  the  belated  tide, 


And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

Tha£  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 
Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  oceatl 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 

GLOOMY    and    dark   art    thou,  O   chief    of  the 

mighty  Omahas  ; 
Gloomy   and   dark  as  the   driving  cloud,  whose 

name  thou  hast  taken  ! 
Wrapt  in  thy  scarlet   blanket,   I   see  thee  stalk 

through  the  city's 
Narrow  and  populous   streets,    as  once  by  the 

margin  of  rivers 
Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left  us 

only  their  footprints. 
What,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy 

race  but  the  footprints  ? 


SEAWEED.— THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


71 


How   canst  thou  walk  these  streets,    who   hast 

trod  the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  V 
How    canst    thou    breathe    this   air,    who    hast 

breathed  the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  "i 
Ah  !  't  is  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain 

thou  dost  challenge 
Looks  of   disdain  in  return,  and  question  these 

walls  and  these  pavements, 
Claiming     the     soil    for     thy    hunting-grounds, 

while  down-trodden  millions 
Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry  from  its 

caverns  that  they,  too, 
Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and  claim 

its  division  ! 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions 

west  of  the  Wabash  ! 
There  as  a  monarch   thou  reignest.     In  autumn 

the  leaves  of  the  maple 
Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and 

in  summer 
Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous 

breath  of  their  branches. 
There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a  hero,  a  tamer 

of  horses  ! 
There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks 

of  the  Elkhorn, 
Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where 

the  Omaha 


Calls  thee,    and   leaps  through   the  wild  ravine 
like  a  brave  of  the  Blackfeet  ! 

Hark  !  what  murmurs   arise  from  the  heart  of 

those  mountainous  deserts  'i 
Is  it  the  cry   of  the   Foxes  and   Crows,  or  the 

mighty  Behemoth, 
Who,  unharmed,  011  his  tusks  once  caught  the 

bolts  of  the  thunder, 
And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of 

the  red  man  'i 
Far  more   fatal   to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the 

Crows  and  the  Foxes, 
Far  more  fatal   to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the 

tread  of  Behemoth, 
Lo  !  the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts 

the  Missouri's 
Merciless    current  !    and    yonder,    afar    on    the 

prairies,  the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night  ;  and  the  cloud  of  dust 

in  the  gray  of  the  daybreak 
Marks  not  the  buffalo's  track,  nor  the  Mandan's 

dexterous  horse-race  ; 
It  is  a  caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell 

the  Camanches  ! 
Ha  !  how  the  breath  of  these  Saxons  and  Celts, 

like  the  blast  of  the  east-wind, 
Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes 

of  thy  wigwams  ! 


SO^GS. 


SEAWEED 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks  : 

From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
.Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song  : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 


From  tfie  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  'from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY.— TO   AN   OLD   DANISH   SONG-BOOK. 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice ; 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

THE  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
.     My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 

WELCOME,  my  old  friend, 
Welcome  to  a  foreign  fireside, 
While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I  met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age, 
There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  ale-house. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 
Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 
As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 
As  the  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

Yet  dost  thou  recall 
Days  departed,  half -forgotten, 
When  in  dreamy  youth  I  wandered 
By  the  Baltic,— 

When  I  paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 

Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 

And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 

Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 
In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 
Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 
At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks ; — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 
Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend  ; 
They,  alas  !  have  left  thee  friendless ! 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  songs  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom, — 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WALTEE  VON  DER  VOGELWEID.— THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


73 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID. 

VOGELWEID  the  Minnesinger, 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  "  From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 
They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 

Overshadowed  all  the  place, 
On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 
Murmured,  "Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood. " 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 
Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 

And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION    FOR    AN   ANTIQUE   PITCHER. 

COME,  old  friend  !  sit  down  and  listen ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken, 

Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 
On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 

Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 
Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o'erzealous  rigor, 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses; 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor, 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 
Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains, — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 

And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 
Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus'  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

L'eternit6  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dit  el 
redit  sans  cesse  ces  deux  mots  seulement,  dans  le  silenct 
des  tombeaux :  "  Toujours  !  jaraais !  Jamais  !  tou 
jours !  " 

JACQTJES  BKIDAINE. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 

Stands.the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw ; 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 

An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, — 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !  " 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 


74 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG.— DANTE. 


Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 

"  Foiever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door, — 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 

u  Forever— never  ! 

Never — forever  ! " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed 

O  precious  hours  !  O  golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 

"  Forever — never ! 

Never — forever  ! " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 


And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

u  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
' '  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  " 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, — 

' '  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, — 

' '  Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !  " 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  "i 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


SOKISTETS. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Lo  !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 
Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed. 

O  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 
My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love  ! 
My  best  and  gentlest  lady  !  even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 
Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 
And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


AUTUMN. 

THOU  comest,  Ajitumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 


Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold  ;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing   the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  do 
main! 

Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So    long    beneath    the    heaven's    o'erhanging 

eaves ; 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attend 

ed; 

Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden 
leaves ! 


DANTE. 

TUSCAN,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 

gloom, 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 
Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom ; 


THE   HEMLOCK  TREE 


75 


Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies. 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 


As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease ; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy     voice     along     the      cloister     whispers, 
"Peace!  " 


TEANSLATIONS. 


O  hemlock  tree !  how  faithful  are  thy  branches. 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

0  HEMLOCK  tree  !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faithful 

are  thy  branches ! 
Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 
But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime  ! 
0  hemlock  tree  !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faithful 
are  thy  branches  ! 


O  maiden  fair !     O  maiden  fair  !  how  faithless  ia 

thy  bosom  ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 
And  leave  me  in  adversity  ! 

O  maiden  fair  !  O  maiden  fair  !  how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom ! 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'  st  f 01 
thine  example  ! 


ANNIE  OF  THARAW.— THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 


So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings, 
But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 
The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for 
thine  example ! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror 

of  thy  falsehood ! 
It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 
The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror 
of  thy  falsehood ! 


ANNIE  OP  THARAW. 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DA.CH. 

ANNIE  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 
Thou,  O  my  soul,  my  flesh,  and  my  blood  } 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or  come 

snow, 
We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so  tall, 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains 
fall,— 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and 
strong, 

Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  man 
ifold  wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 
In  a  desolate   land    where    the    sun    is    scarce 
known, — 

Through  forests  I'll  follow,  and  where  the  sea 

flows, 
Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies 

of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 

Whate'er  I  have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand. 
Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth, 
and  one  hand  ? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and  strife ; 
Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love ; 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whate'er  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen  ; 
I  am  king  of  the  household,    and  thou  art  its 
queen. 

It  is  this,  O  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest  rest, 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one  breast. 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
'Vhile  wrangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a  hell. 


THE    STATUE   OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL 
DOOR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF   JULIUS  MOSEN. 

FORMS  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 

The  cathedral  door  above ; 
Yet  I  saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 

In  his  mantle, — wound  about  him, 

As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind, — 
Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 

Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 

High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild  ; 
O,  were  I  like  him  exalted, 

I  would  be  like  him,  a  child  ! 

And  my  songs, — green  leaves  and  blossoms, — 
To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear, 

Calling  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

ON  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 
Sees  he  how  with  zealous  care 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 

From  the  cross  't  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness  : 
"Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  ! 

Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 
Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  !  " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF   HEINRICH  HEINE. 

THE  sea  hath  its  pearls, 

The  heaven  hath  its  stars  ; 
But  my  heart,  my  heart, 

My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven  ; 

Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 
And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 

Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 

Come  unto  my  great  heart ; 
My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 

Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


POETIC  APHORISMS.— CURFEW. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM     THE    SINNGEDICHTE     OF    FRIEDKICH    VON 
'      LOGAU. 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 
MONEY. 

WHEREUNTO  is  money  good  ? 
Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 
Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair. 

THE  BEST  MEDICINE. 

JOY  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor's  nose. 


MAN-LIKE  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 

POVERTY  AND  -BLINDNESS. 

A  BLIND  man  is  a  poor  man,  and  blind  a  poor 

man  is ; 
For  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter  no 

man  sees. 

LAW  OF  LIFE. 

LIVE  I,  so  live  I, 
To  my  Lord  heartily, 
To  my  Prince  faithfully, 
To  my  Neighbor  honestly. 
Die  I,  so  die  I. 

CREEDS. 

LUTHERAN,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creeds 
and  doctrines  three 

Extant  are ;  but  still  the  doubt  is,  where  Christi 
anity  may  be. 


THE  RESTLESS  HEART. 

A  MILLSTONE  and  the  human  heart  are  driven 

ever  round  ; 
If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must 

themselves  be  ground. 

CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

WHILOM  Love  was  like  a  fire,  and  warmth  and 

comfort  it  bespoke  ; 
But,  alas  !  it  now  is  quenched,  and  only  bites  us, 

like  the  smoke. 


ART  AND  TACT. 

INTELLIGENCE  and  courtesy  not  always  are  com 
bined  ; 
Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  golden  room  we  find. 

RETRIBUTION. 

THOUGH  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they 
grind  exceeding  small ; 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting,  with  ex 
actness  grinds  he  all. 

TRUTH. 

WHEN  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle  but 

a  torch's  fire, 
Ha !  how  soon  they  all  are  silent !    Thus  Truth 

silences  the  liar. 


IF  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound 
not  well  in  strangers'  ears. 

They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it  happens 
so  with  theirs ; 

For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a  father 
land  their  own, 

They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  they  are 
best  and  longest  known. 


OUEFEW. 


i. 

SOLEMNLY,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence, — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 
No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 


II. 

THE  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day  ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies ; 

Forgotten  they  lie ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall ; 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


78 


EVANGELINE. 


EYAJTOELIKE. 

A  TALE  OF  ACADIE. 


She  bore  to  the  reapers  at  noontide  flagons  of  home-brewed  ale. 


THIS  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring 
pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  in 
distinct  in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and 
prophetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on 
their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced 
neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 
wail  of  the  forest. 


This  is  the  forest  primeval ;  but  where  are  the 
hearts  that  beneath  it 

Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  wood 
land  the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of 
Acadian  farmers, — 


j  Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water 

the  woodlands, 
,  Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an 

image  of  heaven  ? 
i  Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers 

forever  departed ! 
Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty 

blasts  of  October 
!  Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle 

them  far  o'er  the  ocean. 
Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful 

village  of  Grand-Pre. 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  en 
dures,  and  is  patient, 

Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of 
woman's  devotion, 

List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the 
pines  of  the  forest ; 

Li  st  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 


EVANGELINE. 


79 


PART  THE  FIRST. 
I. 

IN  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin 

of  Minas, 
Distant,    secluded,    still,    the    little    village    of 

Grand-Pre 
Lay    in    the    fruitful    valley.       Vast    meadows 

stretched  to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks 

without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised 

with  labor  incessant, 

Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides  ;  but  at  stated  sea 
sons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will 

o'er  the  meadows. 

West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  or 
chards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain  ;  and 

away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on 

the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the 

mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their 

station  descended. 
There,  in    the  midst   of  its  farms,  reposed  *he 

Acadian  village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of 

oak  and  of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the 

reign  of  the  Henries. 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows  ; 

and  gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded 

the  doorway. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when 

brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes 

on  the  chimneys, 
Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and 

in  kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning 

the  golden 

Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shut 
tles  within  doors 
Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels 

and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest, 

and  the  children 

Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extend 
ed  to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them ;  and  up  rose 

matrons  and  maidens, 

Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affec 
tionate  welcome. 
Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and 

serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon 

from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs 

of  the  village 

Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  in 
cense  ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace 

and  contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian 

farmers, — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God   and  of  man.     Alike 

were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the 

vice  of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to 

their  windows; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as   day  and  the 

hearts  of  the  owners ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived 

in  abundance. 


Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer 

the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict  Belief ontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of 

Grand-Pre, 

Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres ;  and  with  him,  direct 
ing  his  household, 
Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride 

of  the  village. 
Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of 

seventy  winters ; 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered 

with  snow-flakes ; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks 

as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen 

summers. 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on 

the  thorn  by  the  way-side, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the 

brown  shade  of  her  tresses ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that 

feed  in  the  meadows, 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers 

at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  !  fair  in  sooth  was 

the  maiden. 
Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the 

bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest 

with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings 

upon  them, 

Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chap- 
let  of  beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue, 

and  the  ear-rings, 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since, 

as  an  heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long 

generations. 
But   a   celestial  brightness  —  a    more    ethereal 

beauty — 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when, 

after  confession, 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  bene 
diction  upon  her. 
When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing 

of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house 

of  the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the  sea ; 

and  a  shady 
Sycamore  grew   by  the  door,   with  a  woodbine 

wreathing  around  it. 
Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beneath ; 

and  a  footpath 
Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared 

in  the  meadow. 
Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by 

a  penthouse, 
Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by 

the  roadside, 
Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed  image 

of  Mary. 
Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well 

with  its  moss-grown 
Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a  trough 

for  the  horses. 
Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north, 

were  the  barns  and  the  farm-yard, 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  an 
tique  ploughs  and  the  harrow*  ; 
There  were  the  folds  i'or  the  sheep  ;  and  there,  in 

his  feathered  seraglio, 
Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock, 

with  the  self-same 

Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  peni 
tent  Peter. 
Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a 

village.     In  each  one 


80 


EVANGELINE. 


Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of  thatch  ;  and 
a  staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous 
corn-loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and 
innocent  inmates 

Murmuring  ever  of  love ;  while  above  in  the  vari 
ant  breezes 

Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang 
of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the 
farmer  of  Grand  Pre 


Gabriel  Lajeunesse,the  son  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  hon 
ored  of  all  men ; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages 
vas*  nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by 
the  people. 

Basil  was  Benedict's  friend.  Their  children  from 
earliest  childhood 

Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister;  and  Fa 
ther  Felician, 

Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the. village,  had 
taught  them  their  letters 


Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of  the  farmer. 


Lired  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  gov 
erned  his  household. 

Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and 
opened  his  missal, 

Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his  deep 
est  devotion ; 

Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the 
hem  of  her  garment ! 

Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness 
befriended, 

And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound 
of  her  footsteps, 

Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the 
knocker  of  iron ; 

Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the 
village, 

Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance 
as  he  whispered 

Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part  of  the 
music. 

But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel  only  was 
welcome ; 


Out  of  the  self-same  book,  with  the  hymns  of  tho 
church  and  the  plain-song. 

But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily 
lesson  completed, 

Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil 
the  blacksmith. 

There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes 
to  behold  him 

Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a 
plaything, 

Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ;  while  near  him  the 
tire  of  the  cart-wheel 

Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a  circle  of 
cinders. 

Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gath 
ering  darkness 

Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy,  through 
every  cranny  and  crevice, 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  la 
boring  bellows, 

And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired 
in  the  ashes, 


EVANGELINE. 


Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going 

into  the  chapel. 
Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of 

the  eagle, 
Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided  away  o'er 

the  meadow. 
Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to   the  populous 

nests  on  the  rafters, 
Seeking  with   eager   eyes   that   wondrous   stone, 

which  the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the 

sight  of  its  fledglings  ; 
Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of 

the  swallow  ! 
Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no  longer 

were  children. 
He  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his   face,  like  the 

face  of  the  morning, 
Gladdened  the  earth  with  its  light,  and  ripened 

thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes 

of  a  woman. 
"  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  "  was  she  called  ;  for 

that  was  the  sunshine 
Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load  their 

orchards  with  apples  ; 

She,  too,  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house  de 
light  and  abundance. 

Filling  it  full  of  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  chil 
dren. 

II. 

Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights 
grow  colder  and  longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion 
enters. 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air  from 
the  ice-bound, 

Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical 
islands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in  ;  and  wild  with  the 
winds  of  September 

Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old 
with  the  angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  inclement. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoard 
ed  their  honey 

Till  the  hives  overflowed  ;  and  the  Indian  hunt 
ers  asserted 

Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur 
of  the  foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  followed 
that  beautiful  season. 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer 
of  All-Saints ! 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magical 
light;  and  the  landscape 

Lay  as  if  new  created  in  all  the  freshness  of  child 
hood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  rest 
less  heart  of  the  ocean 

Was  for  a  moment  consoled.  All  sounds  were  in 
harmony  blended. 

Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks 
in  the  farm-yards, 

Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing 
of  pigeons. 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love, 
and  the  great  sun 

Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden 
vapors  around  him ; 

While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet 
and  yellow, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering 
tree  of  the  forest 

Plashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned 
with  mantles  and  jewels. 

Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and  affec 
tion  and  stillness. 

6 


Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and 

twilight  descending 
Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the 

herds  to  the  homestead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their 

necks  on  each  other, 
And  with  their  nostrils   distended  inhaling   the 

freshness  of  evening. 
Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline's  beautiful 

heifer, 
Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  ribbon  that 

waved  from  her  collar. 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human 

affection. 
Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating 

flocks  from  the  seaside, 
;  Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.     Behind  them 

followed  the  watch-dog, 
Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride 

of  his  instinct, 
Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air,  and 

superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the 

stragglers ; 
Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept ; 

their  protector, 
When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry 

silence,  the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains 

from  the  marshes. 
Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its 

odor. 
Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their 

manes  and  their  fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their   shoulders  the  wooden   and 

ponderous  saddles, 

Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tas 
sels  of  crimson, 
Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy 

with  blossoms. 
Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded 

their  udders 
Unto  the   milkmaid's  hand ;  whilst  loud  and  in 

regular  cadence 
Into  the   sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets 

descended. 
Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard 

in  the  farm-yard, 
Echoed  back  by  the  barns.     Anon  they  sank  into 

stillness ; 
Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the  valves 

of  the  barn-doors, 
Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  season  was 

silent. 

In-doors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fire-place, 

idly  the  farmer 
Sat  in  his   elbow-chair,   and  watched    how    the 

flames  and  the  smoke-wreaths 
Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a  burning  city. 

Behind  him, 

Nodding,  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with  ges 
tures  fantastic, 
Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away 

into  darkness. 
Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of  his 

arm-chair 
Laughed  in  the  flickering  light,  and  the  pewter 

plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected    the   flame,    as   shields  of 

armies  the  sunshine. 
Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and  carols 

of  Christmas, 
Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,   his  fathers 

before  him 
Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Bur- 

gundian  vineyards. 
Close  at  her  father's  side  was  the  gentle  Evan- 

geline  seated, 
Spinning  flax   for  the  loom,  that    stood  in  the 

corner  behind  her. 


EVANGELINE. 


Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  its 
diligent  shuttle, 

While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like 
the  drone  of  a  bagpipe, 

followed  the  old  man's  song,  and  united  the 
fragments  together. 

AS  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at 
intervals  ceases. 

Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the 
priest  at  the  altar, 

So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured  mo 
tion  the  clock  clicked. 

Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard, 

and,  suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung 

back  on  its  hinges. 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who 

was  with  him. 
"  Welcome  !  "   the  farmer    exclaimed,   as   their 

footsteps  paused  on  the  threshold, 
1 '  Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend  !     Come,  take  thy 

place  on  the  settle 
Close    by    the    chimney-side,    which    is    always 

empty  without  thee ; 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the 

box  of  tobacco ; 
Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when  through 

the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly  and 

jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the 

mist  of  the  marshes." 
Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,    thus  answered 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the 

fireside : — 
"Benedict  Belief  on  taine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest 

and  thy  ballad ! 
Ever  in  cheerf  ullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others 

are  filled  with 

Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  be 
fore  them. 
Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked 

up  a  horseshoe." 

Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evan 
geline  brought  him, 
And  with  a  coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he 

slowly  continued : — 
1 '  Four  days  now  are  passed   since  the  English 

ships  at  their  anchors 

Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their  can 
non  pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown ;  but  all 

are  commanded 
On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the  church,  where  his 

Majesty's  mandate 
Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.     Alas !  in 

the  mean  time 
Many   surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the 

people." 
Then  made  answer  the  farmer : — "  Perhaps  some 

friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.     Perhaps  the 

harvests  in  England 
By  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have  been 

blighted, 
And  from  our  bursting  barns   they  would  feed 

their  cattle  and  children." 
"Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,"  said, 

warmly,  the  blacksmith, 
Shaking  his  head,  as  in  doubt  ;  then,  heaving  a 

sigh,  he  continued  : — 
"Louisburg  is  not   forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour, 

nor  Port  Royal. 
Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on 

its  outskirts, 
Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of 

to-morrow. 


Arms  have  been  taken  from   us,    and    warlike 

weapons  of  all  kinds  ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge  and 

the  scythe  of  the  mower." 
Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer    the 

jovial  farmer : — 
"  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks 

and  pur  cornfields, 
Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged  by  the 

ocean, 

Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  ene 
my's  cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,    and  to-night  may  no 

shadow  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth;  for  this  is  the 

night  of  the  contract. 
Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.     The  merry 

lads  of  the  village 
Strongly  have  built  them  and  well ;  and,  breaking 

the  glebe  round  about  them, 
Filled  the  barn  with   hay,    and  the  house  with 

food  for  a  twelvemonth. 
Rene  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers 

and  inkhorn. 
Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy 

of  our  children  ?  " 
As    apart  by  the   window   she  stood,   with  her 

hand  in  her  lover's, 
Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her 

father  had  spoken, 
And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy  notary 

entered. 

in. 

BENT  like  a  laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf 

of  the  ocean, 
Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of  the 

notary  public  ; 
Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the 

maize,  hung 
Over  his  shoulders  ;  his  forehead  was  high  ;  and 

glasses  with  horn  bows 
Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wisdom 

supernal. 
Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than 

a  hundred 
Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,   and  heard 

his  great  watch  tick. 
Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he 

languished  a  captive, 
Suffering    much  in  an  old  French  fort  as    the 

friend  of  the  English. 
Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or 

suspicion, 
Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and  simple, 

and  childlike. 
He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the 

children  ; 
For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the 

forest, 
And  of  the   goblin  that   came   in  the    night  to 

water  the  horses, 
And  of  the  white  Letiche,  the  ghost  of  a  child  who 

unchristened 

Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the  cham 
bers  of  children ; 
And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked  in  the 

stable, 
And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider  shut  up 

in  a  nutshell, 
And  of  the  marvellous  powers    of    four-leaved 

clover  and  horseshoes, 
With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the 

village. 
Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil 

the  blacksmith, 

Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  ex 
tending  his  right  hand, 
"Father  Leblanc,"    he    exclaimed,     "thou  hast 

heard  the  talk  in  the  village, 


EVANGELINE. 


83 


And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these 

ships  and  their  errand." 
Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer  the 

notary  public, — 
"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,   yet  am 

never  the  wiser ; 
And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  not  better 

than  others. 

Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil  in 
tention 
Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace  ;  and  why 

than  molest  us  ?  " 

"God's  name!"  shouted  the  hasty  and    some 
what  irascible  blacksmith  ; 
"  Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and  the 

why,  and  the  wherefore  V 
Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of 

the  strongest !  " 
But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the 

notary  public, — 
"Man    is  unjust,  but  God   is  just;  and  finally 

justice 
Triumphs ;  and   well  I  remember  a  story,  that 

often  consoled  me, 
vVhen  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at 

Port  Royal. ' ' 
This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and  he  loved 

to  repeat  it 
When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any  injustice 

was  done  them. 
"  Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no  longer 

remember, 

Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue  of  Jus 
tice 
Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales 

in  its  left  hand, 

And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that  jus 
tice  presided 
Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and 

homes  of  the  people. 
Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales 

of  the  balance, 
Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the 

sunshine  above  them. 
But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land 

were  corrupted ; 
Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were 

oppressed,  and  the  mighty 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.     Then  it  chanced  in  a 

nobleman's  palace 
That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  erelong  a 

suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the 

household. 
She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the 

scaffold, 
Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue 

of  Justice. 
AS  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit 

ascended, 
Lo !  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose  ;  and  the  bolts 

of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath 

from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering  scales 

of  the  balance, 
And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of 

a  magpie, 
Into  whose  clay -built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls 

was  inwoven." 
Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was 

ended,  the  blacksmith 
Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak,  but  find- 

eth  no  language  ; 
AH  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his 

face,  as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes 

in  the  winter. 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the 
table, 


Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with 

home-brewed 
Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in 

the  village  of  Grand-PrJ; ; 
While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers 

and  inkhorn, 
Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age 

of  the  parties, 
Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep 

and  in  cattle. 
Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well 

were  completed, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a  sun 

on  the  margin. 
Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw 

on  the  table 
Three  times  the  old  man's  fee  in  solid  pieces  of 

silver ; 
And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and 

the  bridegroom, 
Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their 

welfare. 
Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly  bowed 

and  departed, 
While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the 

fireside, 
Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of 

its  corner. 

Soon  was  the  game  begun.     In  friendly  conten 
tion  the  old  men 

Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful  man 
oeuvre, 
Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a  breach 

was  made  in  the  king-row. 

Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  win 
dow's  embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  beholding 

the  moon  rise 
Over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the 

meadows. 
Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of 

heaven, 
Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of 

the  angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.     Anon  thn  bell 

from  the  belfry 
Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew, 

and  straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed  ;  and  silence  reigned 

in  the  household. 
Many  a  farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on 

the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and  filled  it 

with  gladness. 
Carefully   then   were    covered  the  embers  that 

glowed  on  the  hearth-stone, 
And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resou'nded  the  tread  of 

the  farmer. 
Soon  with  a  soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evangeline 

followed.  m 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space  in  the 

darkness, 
Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of 

the  maiden. 
Silent  she  passed  the  hall,  and  entered  the  door  of 

her  chamber. 
Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of 

white,  and  its  clothes-press 
Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were 

carefully  folded 

Linen  and  woollen   stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evan 
geline  woven, 
This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to 

her  husband  in  marriage, 
Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her 

skill  as  a  housewife. 
Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mellow 

and  radiant  moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the 

room,  till  the  heart  of  the  maiden 


84 


EVANGELINE. 


Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous 
tides  of  the  ocean. 

Ah !  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as  she 
stood  with 

Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  ot 
her  chamber ! 

Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees 
of  the  orchard, 

Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of 
her  lamp  and  her  shadow. 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a 
feeling  of  sadness 

Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds 
in  the  moonlight 

Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room  for 
a  moment. 

.And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she  saw 
serenely  the  moon  pass 

Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one  star  fol 
low  her  footsteps, 

As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael  wan 
dered  with  Hagar ! 


IV. 

PLEASANTLY  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  vil 
lage  of  Grand-Pre. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the 

Basin  of  Mmas, 
Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows, 

were  riding  at  anchor. 

Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clam 
orous  labor 
Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden 

gates  of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms 

and  neighboring  hamlets, 
Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian 

peasants. 
Many  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from 

the  young  folk 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  nu 
merous  meadows, 
Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of 

wheels  in  the  greensward. 
Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed 

on  the  highway. 
Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor 

were  silenced. 
Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people  ;  and  noisy 

groups  at  the  house-doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped 

together. 
Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  welcomed 

and  feasted ; 
For  with    this    simple    people,   who  lived  like 

brothers  together, 
All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one 

had  was  another's. 
Yet  under  Benedict's  roof    hospitality   seemed 

more  abundant : 
For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her 

father ; 
Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of 

'welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup 

as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the 

orchard,- 
Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of 

betrothal. 
There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest 

and  the  notary  seated  ; 
There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the 

blacksmith. 
Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press 

and  the  bee-hives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest 

of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 


Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately 
played  on  his  snow-white 

Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind  ;  and  the  jolly  face 
of  the  fiddler 

Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are 
blown  from  the  embers. 

Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of 
his  fiddle, 

Tons  lea  Bourgeois  de  C'hartres,  and  Le  Uanllon 
de  Dunkerque, 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to 
the  music. 

Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzy 
ing  dances 

Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path  to 
the  meadows ; 

Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  min 
gled  among  them. 

Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Bene 
dict's  daughter ! 

Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of  the 
blacksmith ! 

So  passed  the  morning  away.     And  lo  !  with  a 

summons  sonorous 
Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the 

meadows  a  drum  beat. 
Thronged   erelong   was    the  church   with   men. 

Without,  in  the  churchyard, 
Waited  the  women.     They  stood  by  the  graves, 

and  hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh 

from  the  forest. 

Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  march 
ing  proudly  among  them 

Entered  the  sacred  portal.     With  loud  and  disso 
nant  clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from 

ceiling  and  casement, — 
Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous 

portal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will 

of  the  soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from 

the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the 

royal  commission. 
"  You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  u  by  his 

Majesty's  orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he   been;   but  how  you 

have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  !     To  my  natural  make 

and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know 

must  be  grievous. 
Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of 

our  monarch ; 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and 

cattle  of  all  kinds 

Forfeited  be  to  the  crown  ;  and  that  you  your 
selves  from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant  you 

may  dwell  there 
Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a  happy  and  peaceable 

people ! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you ;   for  such  is  his 

Majesty's  pleasure ! " 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice 

of  summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling 

of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field  and 

shatters  his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with 

thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  heard  s,  and  seek  to  break  their 

enclosures ; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people   descended  the 

words  of  the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder, 

and  then  rose 


EVANGELINE. 


85 


Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of   sorrow  and 

anger, 
And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed 

to  the  door-way. 
Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape ;  and  cries  and  fierce 

imprecations 
Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer ;  and  high  o'er 

the  heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil 

the  blacksmith, 
As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a   spar  is   tossed   by  the 

billows. 
Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ; 

and  wildly  he  shouted, — 
l>  Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England!  we  never 

have  sworn  them  allegiance  ! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize  on  our 

homes  and  our  harvests  !  " 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless 

hand  of  a  soldier 
Smote   him   upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him 

down  to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry 

contention, 
Lo  !  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father 

Felician 
Entered,  with  serious  mien,    and   ascended  the 

steps  of  the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed 

into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng ;  and  thus  he  spake  to 

his  people ; 
Deep   were   his  tones  and    solemn ;    in   jiccsnts 

measured  and  mournful 
Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly 

the  clock  strikes. 
"What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ?  what 

madness  has  seized  you  ? 
Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored  among  you, 

and  taught  you, 
Not  in  word   alone,  but  in    deed,    to   love  one 

another ! 
Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and 

prayers  and  privations '! 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and 

forgiveness  V 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and 

would  you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing 

with  hatred  ? 
Lo  !  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his  cross  is 

gazing  upon  you  ! 
See  !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and 

holy  compassion  ! 
Hark  !  how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer,  '  O 

Father,  forgive  them  ! '. 
Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the 

wicked  assail  us, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  '  O  Father,  for 
give  them  !  ' " 
Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the 

hearts  of  his  people 
Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  the 

passionate  outbreak, 
While  they  repeated   his  prayer,  and  said,   *'  O 

Father,  forgive  them  !  " 

Then  came   the  evening  service.     The  tapers 

gleamed  from  the  altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and 

the  people  responded, 
Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts ;  and 

the  Ave  Maria 
Sang  they,  and   fell  on   their  knees,   and  their 

souls,  with  devotion  translated, 
Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending 

to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings 
of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 


Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house  the 
women  and  children. 

Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with 
her  right  hand 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun, 
that,  descending. 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splen 
dor,  and  roofed  each 

Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  em 
blazoned  its  windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white 
cloth  on  the  table  ; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey  fra 
grant  with  wild-flowers ; 

There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese 
fresh  brought  from  the  dairy  ; 

And,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  the  great  arm 
chair  of  the  farmer. 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door,  as 
the  sunset 

Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the  broad 
ambrosial  meadows. 

Ah  !  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow  had 
fallen, 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance  celes 
tial  ascended, — 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgive 
ness,  and  patience  ! 

Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the 
village. 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mournful 
hearts  of  the  women, 

As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps 
they  departed, 

.Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary 
feet  of  their  children. 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden,  glim 
mering  vapors 

Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet  de 
scending  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus 
sounded. 

Meanwhile,    amid  the   gloom,  by  the   church 

Evangeline  lingered. 
All  was  silent  within ;  and  in  vain  at  the  door 

and  the  windows 
Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till,  overcome 

by  emotion, 
"  Gabriel !  "    cried    she    aloud   with    tremulous 

voice ;  but  no  answer 
Came   from    the   graves  of    the   dead,    nor  the 

gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 
Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless 

house  of  her  father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board 

was  the  supper  untasted, 
Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted 

with  phantoms  of  terror. 
Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor 

of  her  chamber. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  disconso 
late  rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore-tree 

by  the  window. 
Keenly  the  lightning  flashed ;    and  the  voice  of 

the  echoing  thunder 
Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed 

the  world  he  created  ! 
Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of 

the  justice  of  Heaven  ; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully 

slumbered  till  morning. 


V. 

FOUR  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ;   and  now 

on  the  fifth  day 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of 

the  farm-house. 


86 


EVANGELINE. 


Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful 

procession, 
Came   from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms 

the  Acadian  women, 
Driving    in    ponderous    wains    their    household 

goods  to  the  sea-shore, 
Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on 

their  dwellings, 
Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding 

road  and  the  woodland. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged 

on  the  oxen, 
While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some 

fragments  of  playthings. 


Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hurried ; 

and  there  on  the  sea-beach 

Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the 
peasants. 


Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their 

homes  and  their  country, 
Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are 

weary  and  wayworn, 
So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants 

descended 
Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their 

wives  and  their  daughters. 
Foremost    the    young  men   came ;   and,    raising 

together  their  voices, 
Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the  Catholic 

Missions : — 
"Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour  !     O  inexhaustible 

fountain  ! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and   sub 
mission  and  patience !  " 
Then  the   old   men,  as   they  marched,    and   the 

women  that  stood  by  the  wayside 
Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the 

sunshine  above  them 


Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods. 


\11  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did 

the  boats  ply ; 
All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from 

the  village. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to 

his  setting, 
Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums 

from  the  churchyard. 
Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.     On  a 

sudden  the  church-doors 
Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching 

in  gloomy  procession 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient  Aca 
dian  farmers. 


Mingled    their  notes    therewith,   like  voices  oi 
spirits  departed. 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited 

in  silence, 
Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour 

of  affliction,— 
Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  procession 

approached  her, 
And  she  beheld   the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with 

emotion. 
Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running 

to  meet  him, 


EVANGELINE. 


87 


Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 

shoulder,  and  whispered, — 
"  Gabriel !    be  of  good  cheer !  for  if  we  love  one 

another 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  vis,  whatever  mis 
chances  may  happen  !  " 
Smiling  she   spake  these  words ;    then  suddenly 

paused,  for  her  father 
Saw  she  slowly  advancing.     Alas  !  how  changed 

was  his  aspect ! 
Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  fire 

from  his  eye,  and  his  footstep 
Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  heavy  heart 

in  his  bosom . 
But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  she  clasped  his  neck 

and  embraced  him, 
Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words  of 

comfort  availed  not. 
Thus  to   the  Gaspereau's   mouth  moved  on  that 

mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and 

stir  of  embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats ;   and  in  the  con 
fusion 
Wives    were    torn    from    their    husbands,    and 

mothers,  too  late,  saw  their  children 
Left   on   the   land,    extending  their   arms,    with 

wildest  entreaties. 
So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel 

carried. 
While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood 

with  her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went 

down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened   around ;    and  in  haste 

the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the 

sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the 

slippery  sea-weed. 
Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods 

and  the  wagons, 

Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a  battle, 
All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels 

near  them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Aca 
dian  farmers. 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellow 
ing  ocean, 
Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles, 

and  leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of 

the  sailors. 
Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  returned 

from  their  pastures ; 
Sweet  was  the    moist  still  air  with   the  odor  of 

milk  from  their  udders  ; 
Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known 

bars  of  the  farm -yard,— 
Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the 

hand  of  the  milkmaid, 
Silence  reigned  in  the  streets  ;    from  the  church 

no  Angelus  sounded, 
Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no 

lights  from  the  windows. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires 

had  been  kindled, 
Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from 

wrecks  in  the  tempest. 
Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces 

were  gathered, 
Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the 

crying  of  children. 
Onward   from   fire    to   fire,    as  from    hearth   to 

hearth  in  his  parish, 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  bless 
ing  and  cheering, 
Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita's  desolate 

sea-shore. 


Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline 

sat  with  her  father, 
And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the 

old  man, 
Haggard  anil  hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either 

thought  or  emotion, 
E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the  hands 

have  been  taken. 

Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  cares 
ses  to  cheer  him, 
Vainly  offered  him  food  ;  yet  he  moved  not,  he 

looked  not,  he  spake  not, 

But,  with  a  vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the  flicker 
ing  fire-light. 
''  Benedicite  '.  "   murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  oi 

compassion. 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart  was 

full,  and  his  accents 
Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a 

child  on  a  threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he   beholds,  and  the  awful 

presence  of  sorrow. 
Silently,    therefore,    he    laid    his    hand  on    the 

head  of  the  maiden, 
Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars  that 

above  them 
Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs 

and  sorrows  of  mortals. 
Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,   and  they   wept 

together  in  silence. 


Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in 

autumn  the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o'er 

the  horizon 
Titan-like    stretches    its    hundred    hands    upon 

mountain  and  meadow, 
Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge 

shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs 

of  the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships 

that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of 

flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and   withdrawn,  like 

the  quivering  hands  of  a  martyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burn 
ing  thatch,  and,  uplifting, 
Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from 

a  hundred  house-tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame 

intermingled. 
These   things   beheld    in  dismay  the  crowd    on 

the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 
Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in 

their  anguish, 

"We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  vil 
lage  of  Grand-Pre !  " 
Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the 

farm-yards, 
Thinking   the   day  had   dawned  ;    and  anon  the 

lowing  of   cattle 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  o 

dogs  interrupted. 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  th 

sleeping  encampments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt 

the  Nebraska, 
When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with 

the  speed  of  the  whirlwind, 
Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to 

the  river. 
Such  wag  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as 

the  herds  and  the  horses 
Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly 

rushed  o'er  the  meadows. 

Overwhelmed   with  the  sight,    yet  speechless, 
the  priest  and  the  maiden 


EVANGELINE. 


Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and 

widened  before  them ; 
And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their 

silent  companion, 
Lo !  from  his   seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched 

abroad  on  the  sea-shore 
Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  soul  had 

departed. 
Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and 

the  maiden 
Knelt  at  her  father's   side,  and  wailed  aloud  in 

her  terror. 
Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head 

on  his  bosom. 
Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious 

slumber ; 
And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld 

a  multitude  near  her. 
Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully 

gazing  upon  her, 
Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest 

compassion. 
Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined 

the  landscape, 
Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the 

faces  aronnd  her, 

And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  waver 
ing  senses. 
Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the 

people, — 
"  Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.     When    a 

happier  season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown 

land  of  our  exile, 
Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the 

churchyard. " 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.     And  there 

in  haste  by  the  sea-side, 
•Having    the    glare  of    the  burning  village  for 

funeral  torches, 
But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  fanner 

of  Grand-Pre. 

And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  ser 
vice  of  sorrow, 
Lo !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a 

vast  congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar 

with  the  dirges. 
'Twas  the    returning  tide,    that  afar  from  the 

waste  of  the  ocean, 
With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving 

and  hurrying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise 

of  embarking ; 
And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out 

of  the  harbor, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and 

the  village  in  ruins. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 


MANY  a   weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning 

of  Grand-Pre, 
When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  vessels 

departed, 
Bearing  a  nation,  with  all  its  household  gods, 

into  exile, 
Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  example 

in  story. 
Far  asunder,  on  separate   coasts,  the   Acadians 

landed ; 
Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow,  when 

the  wind  from  the  northeast 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the 

Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,    homeless,   hopeless,    they   wandered 

from  city  to  city, 


From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  South 
ern  savannas, — 
From  the  bleak   shores  of  the  sea  to   the  lands 

where  the  Father  of  Waters 
Seizes  the  hills  in   his  hands,  and  drags   them 

down  to  the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones 

of  the  mammoth. 

Friends  they  sought   and  homes  ;  and  many,  de 
spairing,  heart-broken, 
Asked  of  the  earth  but  a  grave,  and  no  longer  a 

friend  nor  a  fireside. 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone 

in  the  churchyards. 
Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who  waited 

and  wandered, 
Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering 

all  things. 
Fair  was  she  and  young ;  but,  alas !    before  her 

extended, 
Dreary  and  vast  and   silent,  the  desert  of  life, 

with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed 

and  suffered  before  her, 
Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead 

and  abandoned, 
As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the  Western  desert 

is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach 

in  the  sunshine. 
Something    there    was  in  her    life    incomplete, 

imperfect,  unfinished; 
As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and 

sunshine, 
Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly 

descended 
Into  the  east  again,    from  whence  it  late  had 

arisen. 
Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by 

the  fever  within  her, 
Urged   by  a  restless  longing,    the   hunger    and 

thirst  of  the  spirit, 
She  would  commence  again   her  endless  search 

and  endeavor ; 
Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on 

the  crosses  and  tombstones, 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that 

perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber 

beside  him. 
Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticulate 

whisper, 
Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her 

forward. 
Sometimes  she   spake  with  those  who  had  seen 

her  beloved  and  known  him, 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in   some  far-off  place  or 

forgotten. 
"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  !  "  they  said  ;    "  O  yes  !   we 

have  seen  him. 
He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have 

gone  to  the  prairies ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters 

and  trappers. " 
"Gabriel  Lajeunesse!"   said   others;    "O  yes! 

we  have  seen  him. 

He  is  a  Voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana. " 
Then  would  they  say,  u  Dear  child  !  why  dream 

and  wait  for  him  longer '? 
Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  ? 

others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits 

as  loyal? 
Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son,  who 

has  loved  thee 
Many  a  tedious  year;  come,  give  him  thy  hand 

and  be  happy  ! 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Catherine's 

tresses." 
Then  would    Evangeline    answer,    serenely  but 

sadly,  "I  cannot ! 


EVAXGELINE. 


Whither  my  heart   has  gone,    there  follows  my 

hand,  and  not  elsewhere. 
For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and 

illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden 

in  darkness." 

Thereupon    the  priest,   her  friend  and    father- 
confessor, 
Said,  with  a  smile,  "O  daughter!  thy  God  thus 

speaketh  within  thee  ! 
Talk  not    of    wasted  affection,  affection    never 

was  wasted  ; 
If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters, 

returning 
Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them 

full  of  refreshment ; 
That  which    the  fountain  sends  forth    returns 

again  to  the  fountain. 
Patience ;  accomplish  thy  labor ;   accomplish  thy 

work  of  affection  ! 
Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endur-  j 

ance  is  godlike. 
Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the 

heart  is  made  godlike, 
Purified,   strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered 

more  worthy  of  heaven  !  " 
Cheered   by  the   good  man's  words,  Evangeline 

labored  and  waited. 
Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge   of 

the  ocean, 
But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a  voice  that 

whispered,  •'  Despair  not !  " 
Thus  did   that   poor  soul   wander  in   want  and 

cheerless  discomfort, 
Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns 

of  existence. 
Let  me  essay,  O  Muse  !  to  follow  the  wanderer's 

footsteps ; — 
Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changeful 

year  of  existence ; 
But  as  a   traveller  follows   a   streamlet's  course 

through  the  valley  : 
Far  from    its  margin  at  times,  and   seeing   the 

gleam  of  its  water 

Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  inter 
vals  only  ; 
Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan 

glooms  that  conceal  it, 

Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  continu 
ous  murmur  ; 
Happy,    at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where  it 

reaches  an  outlet. 

H. 

IT  was  the  month  of  May.     Far  down  the  Beau 
tiful  River, 
Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the 

Wabash, 
Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift 

Mississippi, 

Floated   a  cumbrous   boat,  that  was  rowed  by 
•  Acadian  boatmen. 

It  was  a  band  of  exiles ;  a  raft,  as  it  were,  from 

the  shipwrecked 
Nation,  scattered  along  the   coast,  now  floating 

together, 
Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and  a 

common  misfortune ; 
Men  and  women  and   children,  who,  guided   by 

hope  or  by  hearsay, 
Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the 

few-acred  farmers 
On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair 

Opelousas. 
With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide,  the 

Father  Felician. 
Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wilderness 

sombre  with  forests, 
Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent 


Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped 

on  its  borders. 
Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands, 

where  plumelike 
Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they 

swept  with  the  current, 
Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery 

sand-bars 
Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves 

of  their  margin, 
Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of 

pelicans  waded. 
Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores 

of  the  river, 
Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant 

gardens, 
Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro-cabins 

and  dove-cots. 
They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns 

perpetual  summer. 
Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of 

orange  and  citron, 
Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the 

eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course;  and,  en 
tering  the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 
Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious 

waters, 
Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every 

direction. 
Over  their   heads   the   towering   and   tenebrous 

boughs  of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid 
air 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  an 
cient  cathedrals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save 

by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning 

at  sunset, 
Or  by  the   owl,    as   he  greeted   the  moon  with 

demoniac  laughter. 
Lovely   the    moonlight    was  as  it   glanced   and 

gleamed  on  the  water, 
Gleamed  on  the   columns   of  cypress  and   cedar 

sustaining  the  arches, 
Down  through  whose   broken  vaults   it  fell  as 

through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 
Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were  all 

things  around  them ; 
And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling  of 

wonder  and  sadness, — 
Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  that  cannot  be 

compassed. 
As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  turf  of 

the  prairies. 

Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrink 
ing  mimosa. 
So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings 

of  evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of 

doom  has  attained  it. 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a  vision, 

that  faintly 
Floated   before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  or, 

through  the  moonlight. 
It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the 

shape  of  a  phantom. 

Through  those  shadowy  isles  had  Gabriel  wan 
dered  before  her, 
And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now   brought   him 

nearer  and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose 

one  of  the  oarsmen. 
And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  perad- 

venture, 
Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and   midnight  streams, 

blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors 

leafy  the  blast  rang, 


90 


EVANGELINE. 


Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues 
to  the  forest. 

Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just 
stirred  to  the  music. 

Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  dis 
tance, 

Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  reverber 
ant  branches ; 

But  not  a  voice  replied;  no  answer  came  from 
the  darkness ; 

And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of 
pain  was  the  silence. 

Then  Evangeline  slept ;  but  the  boatmen  rowed 
through  the  midnight, 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian 
boat-songs. 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian 
rivers, 

While  through  the  night  were  heard  the  myste 
rious  sounds  of  the  desert, 

Far  off, — indistinct, — as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the 
forest, 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar 
of  the  grim  alligator. 

Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged  from  the 

shades  ;  and  before  them 
Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchafa- 

laya. 
Water-lilies  in  myriads    rocked    on    the  slight 

undulations 
Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,   resplendent  in 

beauty,  the  lotus 
Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the 

boatmen. 
Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of 

magnolia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon  ;  and  numberless  syl 
van  islands, 
Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming 

hedges  of  roses, 
Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited 

to  slumber. 
Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were 

suspended. 
Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew 

by  the  margin, 
Safely  their   boat  was  moored ;    and  scattered 

about  on  the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their    midnight  toil,  the  weary  tra 
vellers  slumbered. 
Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a 

cedar. 
Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower 

and  the  grapevine 
Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder 

of  Jacob, 
On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending, 

descending, 
Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from 

blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slum 
bered  beneath  it. 
Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of 

an  opening  heaven 
Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions 

celestial.  — , 

Nearer,    ever  nearer,    among  the   numberless 

islands. 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er 

the  water, 
Urged    on  its   course    by  the    sinewy    arms  of 

hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of 

the  bison  and  beaver. 
At    the    helm    sat  a    youth,    with   countenance 

thoughtful  and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow, 

and  a  sadness 


Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legi 
bly  written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy 
and  restless, 

Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and 
of  sorrow. 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of 

the  island, 
j  But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen  of 

palmettos, 

j  So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  con 
cealed  in  the  willows, 
(  All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and 

unseen,  were  the  sleepers, 

j  Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slum 
bering  maiden. 

]  Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud 
on  the  prairie. 

After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had 

died  in  the  distance, 

1  As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and 
•  the  maiden 

Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "  O  Father 
Felician  ! 

Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel 
wanders. 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  supersti 
tion  y 

Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to 
my  spirit  y  " 

Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,    "Alas  for  my 
credulous  fancy ! 

Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  theee  have  no 
meaning." 

But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled 
as  he  answered, — 

"Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle;  nor  are  they 
to  me  without  meaning. 

Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;  and  the  word  that  floats 
on  the  surface 

Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the 

anchor  is  hidden. 
j  Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the 

world  calls  illusions. 
I  Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee ;  for  not  far  away  to  the 

southward, 
|  On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St. 

Maur  and  St.  Martin, 
j  There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given 

again  to  her  bridegroom, 

j  There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and 
his  sheepfold. 

Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  for 
ests  of  fruit-trees ; 

Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest 
of  heavens 

Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls 
of  the  forest. 

They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of 
Louisiana. " 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  con 
tinued  their  journey.  9 
Softly  the  evening  came.     The   sun  from    the 

western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o'er 

the  landscape  ; 
Twinkling  vapors  arose ;  and  sky  and  water  and 

forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and 

mingled  together. 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with  edges 

of  silver, 
Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the 

motionless  water. 
Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible 

sweetness. 
Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains 

of  feeling 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and 

waters  around  her. 


EVANGELINE. 


91 


Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mocking 
bird,  wildest  of  singers, 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er 
the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  deliri 
ous  music, 

That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves 
seemed  silent  to  listen.  „ 

Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad ;  then 
soaring  to  madness 

Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  fren 
zied  Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low 
lamentation ; 

Dill,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them 
abroad  in  derision, 

As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through 
the  tree -top  s 

Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower 
on  the  branches. 

With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that 
throbbed  with  emotion, 

Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows 
through  the  green  Opelousas, 

And,  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of 
woodland, 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neigh 
boring  dwelling ; — 

Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  low 
ing  of  cattle. 


III. 

NEAR  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by 
oaks,  from  whose  branches 


I  Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistle 
toe  flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets 
at  Yule-tide, 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herds 
man.  A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant 
blossoms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house  itself 
was  of  timbers 

Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted 
together. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof ;  and  on  slender  col 
umns  supported, 

Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and  spa 
cious  veranda. 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended 
around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the 
garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  perpetual 
symbol. 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentions 
of  rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of  shadow 
and  sunshine 

Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees ;  but  the  house 
itself  was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly 
expanding 

Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke 
rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate, 
ran  a  pathway 

Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of 
the  limitless  prairie, 


Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and  stirrups. 


92 


EVANGELINE. 


Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  de 
scending. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy 
canvas 

Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless 
calm  in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of 
grapevines. 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf 

of  the  prairie, 
Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and 

stirrups, 
Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet  of 

deerskin. 
Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under 

the  Spanish  sombrero 
Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look 

of  its  master. 
Bound  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine, 

that  were  grazing 

Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  va 
pory  freshness 
That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself  over 

the  landscape. 
Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and 

expanding 
Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast,  that 

resounded 
Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp 

air  of  the  evening. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of 

the  cattle 
Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents 

of  ocean. 
Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed 

o'er  the  prairie, 
And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a  shade  in 

the  distance. 
Then,   as    the  herdsman  turned   to  the   house, 

through  the  gate  of  the  garden 
Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden 

advancing  to  meet  him.  * 

Suddenly  down    from   his   horse   he  sprang  in 

amazement,  and  forward 
Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of 

wonder ; 
When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized  Basil 

the  blacksmith. 
Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to 

the  garden. 
There  in  an  arbor  of  roses  with  endless  question 

and  answer 
Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their 

friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting  silent 

and  thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not ;  and  now  dark 

doubts  and  misgivings 

Stole  o'er  the  maiden's  heart ;  and  Basil,  some 
what  embarrassed, 
Broke  the  silence  and  said,  "If  you  came  by  the 

Atchafalaya, 
How  have  you  nowhere  encountered  my  Gabriel's 

boat  on  the  bayous  ?  " 
Over  Evangeline's  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a 

shade  passed. 
Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a 

tremulous  accent, 
"Gone?  is  Gabriel  gone?"  and,  concealing  her 

face  on  his  shoulder, 
All  her  o'erburdened  heart  gave  way,  and  she 

wept  and  lamented. 
Then  the  good  Basil  said,— and  his  voice  grew 

blithe  as  he  said  it. — 
"  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child ;  it  is  only  to-dav  he 

departed. 
Foolish  boy  !  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds 

and  my  horses. 
Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled, 

his  spirit 


Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet 

existence. 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful  ever, 
Ever   silent,  or   speaking   only  of   thee   and  his 

troubles, 
He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men  and  to 

maidens, 
Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  bethought 

me,  and  sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with 

the  Spaniards. 
Thence  he   will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the 

Ozark  Mountains, 
Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping 

the  beaver. 
Therefore  be  of  good  cheer ;  we  will  follow  the 

fugitive  lover ; 
He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the 

streams  are  against  him. 
Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red  dew 

of  the  morning 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  ta 

his  prison." 

Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up  from  the 

banks  of  the  river, 
Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came  Michael 

the  fiddler. 
Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived  like  a  god 

on  Olympus, 
Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to 

mortals. 
Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks  and  his 

fiddle. 
"Long  live  Michael,"  they   cried,    "our  brave 

Acadian  minstrel  ! " 
As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  procession  ; 

and  straightway 

Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greet 
ing  the  old  man 
Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,    while 

Basil,  enraptured, 
Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and 

gossips, 
Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers 

and  daughters. 
Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the 

cidevant  blacksmith, 
All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal 

demeanor ; 
Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil 

and  the  climate, 
And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were 

his  who  would  take  them  ; 
Each  one   thought  in   his   heart,  that  he,   too, 

would  go  and  do  likewise. 
Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the 

breezy  veranda. 
Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where-  already  the 

supper  of  Basil 
Waited  his  late  return  ;    and   they  rested  and 

feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the  sudden  darkness  de 
scended. 

All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  land 
scape  with  silver, 

Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars ; 
but  within  doors, 

Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in 
the  glimmering  lamplight. 

Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  the  herdsman 

Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in 
endless  profusion. 

Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Nat- 
chitoches  tobacco, 

Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and 
smiled  as  they  listened  : — 

"  Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long  have 
been  friendless  and  homeless, 


EVANGELINE. 


93 


Welcome  once  more  to  a  home,  that  is  better  per 
chance  than  the  old  one  ! 
Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like 

the  rivers ; 
Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath  of  the 

farmer. 
Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil, 

as  a  keel  through  the  water. 

All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blos 
som  ;  and  grass  grows 
More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole   Canadian 

summer. 

Here,   too,   numberless   herds  run  wild  and  un 
claimed  in  the  prairies  ; 
Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  asking,  and 

forests  of  timber 
With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed 

into  houses. 
After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are 

yellow  with  harvests, 
No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away 

from  your  homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing 

your  farms  and  your  cattle." 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrathful  cloud 

from  his  nostrils. 
While  his  huge,  brown  hand   came  thundering 

down  on  the  table, 
So  that  the  guests  all  started ;  and  Father  Feli- 

cian,  astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  half-way 

to  his  nostrils. 
But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were 

milder  and  gayer  : — 
'"'  Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware 

of  the  fever  ! 

For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  cli 
mate, 
Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round  one's  neck 

in  a  nutshell !  " 
Then  there  were  voices  heard  at   the  door,  and 

footsteps  approaching 
Sounded    upon  the  stairs   and  the  floor  of  the 

breezy  veranda. 
It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian 

planters, 
Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil 

the  Herdsman. 
Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and 

neighbors  : 
Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms ;  and  they  who 

before  were  as  strangers, 
Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends 

to  each  other, 
Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common  country 

together. 
But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a  strain  of  music, 

proceeding 
From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's  melodious 

fiddle, 
Broke  up  all  further  speech.     Away,  like  children 

delighted. 
All  things  forgotten,  besides,  they  gave  themselves 

to  the  maddening 
Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed 

to  the  music. 
Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of 

fluttering  garments. 

Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the 
priest  and  the  herdsman 

Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and 
future ; 

While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for 
within  her 

Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the 
music 

Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  irrepressi 
ble  sadness 

Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth 
into  the  garden. 


Beautiful  was  the  night.     Behind  the  black  wall 

of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon. 

On  the  river 

Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  trem 
ulous  gleam  of  the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened 

and  devious  spirit. 
Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers 

of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their 

prayers  and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a  silent 

Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with 

shadows  and  night-dews, 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.     The  calm  and 

the  magical  moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate   her  soul  with    indefinable 

longings, 
As,   through  the   garden   gate,  and  beneath  the 

shade  of  the  oak-trees, 
Passed  she   along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the 

measureless  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire 
flies 

Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infi 
nite  numbers. 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in 

the  heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  mar 
vel  and  worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls 

of  that  temple, 
As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 

* '  Upharsin. " 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars 

and  the  fire-flies, 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  "  O  Gabriel !     O 

my  beloved  ! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  be 
hold  thee  ? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does 

not  reach  me '? 
Ah !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to 

the  prairie ! 
Ah !    how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the 

woodlands  around  me  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from 

labor, 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me 

in  thy  slumbers  ! 
When   shall   these  eyes  behold,    these  arms    be 

folded  about  thee  ?  " 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whip- 

poorwill  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods  ;  and  anon,  through  the 

neighboring  thickets, 
Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped 

into  silence. 
' '  Patience  !  "  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular 

caverns  of  darkness : 
And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  responded, 

"  To-morrow  ! " 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day  ;  and  all  the  flowers 

of  the  garden 
Bathed   his   shining  feet  with  their  tears,   and 

anointed  his  tresses 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their 

vases  of  crystal. 
"  Farewell !  "  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the 

shadowy  threshold  ; 
"  See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his 

fasting  and  famine, 
And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the 

bridegroom  was  coming. " 
'•  Farewell !  "  answered  the  maiden,  and,  smiling, 

with  Basil  descended 
Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boatmen 

already  were  waiting. 


94 


EVANGELINE. 


Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning,  and 

sunshine,  and  gladness, 
Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was 

speeding  before  them, 
Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf  over 

the  desert. 
Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that 

succeeded, 
Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest 

or  river, 
Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him ;  but 

vague  and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a  wild 

and  desolate  country  ; 
Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of 

Adayes, 
Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from 

the  garrulous  landlord, 
That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides 

and  companions, 
Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the  road  of  the 

prairies. 

IV. 

FAK  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where 
,.  the  mountains 

Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and 
luminous  summits. 

Down  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the 
gorge,  like  a  gateway, 

Opens  a  passing  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emi 
grant's  wagon, 

Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway 
and  Owyhee. 

Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind- 
river  Mountains, 

Through  the  Sweet -water  Valley  precipitate  leaps 
the  Nebraska ; 

And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout  and 
the  Spanish  sierras,  ' 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the 
wind  of  the  desert, 

Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound,  de 
scend  to  the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and 
solemn  vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  won 
drous,  beautiful  prairies, 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and 
sunshine, 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  pur 
ple  amorphas. 

Over  them  wander  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk 
and  the  roebuck ; 

Over  them  wander  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  rider 
less  horses ; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are 
weary  with  travel ; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ish- 
mael's  children, 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood ;  and  above  their 
terrible  war-trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the 
vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaugh 
tered  in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the 
heavens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of 
these  savage  marauders  ; 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of 
swift-running  rivers ; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk 
of  the  desert. 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by 
the  brook-side. 

And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline 
heaven, 

Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above 
them. 


Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark 

Mountains, 

Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trap 
pers  behind  him. 
Day  after  day,   with  their    Indian  guides,    the 

maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day 

to  o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the 

smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain ; 

but  at  nightfall, 
When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found 

only  embers  and  ashes . 
And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and 

their  bodies  were  weary, 
Hope   still  guided  them  on,   as  the  magic  Fata 

Morgana 
Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated 

and  vanished  before  them. 


Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there 

silently  entered 
Into   the  little  camp  an  Indian   woman,  whose 

features 
Wore  deep  traces   of    sorrow,    and  patience  as 

great  as  her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her 

people, 
From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the  cruel 

Camanches, 
Where  her  Canadian  husband,    a    Coureur-des- 

Bois,  had  been  murdered. 
Touched  were    their   hearts  at   her  story,    and 

warmest  and  friendliest  welcome 
Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat  and 

feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on 

the  embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all 

his  companions, 
Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase  of 

the  deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept 

where  the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms 

wrapped  up  in  their  blankets. 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she  sat  and 

repeated 
Slovjjy,  with   soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of 

her  Indian  accent, 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and 

pains,  and  reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know 

that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had 

been  disappointed. 
Moved  to  the   depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and 

woman's  compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that   one   who   had 

suffered  was  near  her, 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she 

had  ended 
Still  was  mute  ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious 

horror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated 

the  tale  of  the  Mowis  ; 
Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,   who  won  and 

wedded  a  maiden, 
But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed 

from  the  wigwam, 
Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the 

sunshine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed 

far  into  the  forest. 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like 

a  weird  incantation, 
Told   she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was 

wooed  by  a  phantom. 


EVANGELINE. 


When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found  only  embers. 


That,  through  the  pines,  o'er  her  father's  lodge, 

in  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered 

love  to  the  maiden, 
Till   she  followed   his   green  and   waving  plume 

through  the  forest, 
And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by 

her  people. 
Silent  with  wonder  and   strange   surprise,  Evan- 

geline  listened 
To  the  soft  flow  of   her  magical  words,  till  the 

region  around  her 
Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy 

guest  the  enchantress. 
Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the 

moon  rose, 
Lighting  the  little   tent,  and  with  a  mysterious 

splendor 
Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and 

filling  the  woodland. 
With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and 

the  branches 
Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible 

whispers. 
Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's 

heart,  but  a  secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  ter 
ror, 
As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest 

of  the  swallow. 

It  was  no  earthly  fear.     A  breath  from  the  re 
gion  of  spirits 
Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night ;  and  she  felt 

for  a  moment 


That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursu 
ing  a  phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the 
phantom  had  vanished. 


Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  resumed  ; 

and  the  Shawnee 
Said,  as  they  journeyed  along,  "  On  the  western 

slope  of  these  mountains 
Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief 

of  the  Mission. 
Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of 

Mary  and  Jesus ; 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with 

pain,  as  they  hear  him." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  and   secret  emotion,  Evan- 

geline  answered, 
"  Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good  tidings 

await  us  !  " 
Thither  they  turned  their  steeds  ;  and  behind  a 

spur  of  the  mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur 

of  voices. 
And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank 

of  a  river, 
Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the 

Jesuit  Mission. 
Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of 

the  village, 
Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children.    A 

crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed 

by  grapevines, 


EVANGELINE. 


Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multitude 
kneeling  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel  Aloft,  through  the 
intricate  arches 

Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  ves 
pers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and 
sighs  of  the  branches. 

Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers, 
nearer  approaching, 

Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in  the 
evening  devotions, 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benedic 
tion  had  fallen 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from 
the  hands  of  the  sower, 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  stran 
gers,  and  bade  them 

Welcome  ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with 
benignant  expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother- 
tongue  in  the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted  them 
into  his  wigwam. 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on 
cakes  of  the  maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water- 
gourd  of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told ;  and  the  priest  with 
solemnity  answered : — 

"  Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel, 
seated 

On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden 
reposes, 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale  ;  then  arose  and  con 
tinued  his  journey  !  " 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake 
with  an  accent  of  kindness  ; 

But  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as  in 
winter  the  snow-flakes 

Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds 
have  departed. 

"Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued  the 
priest ;  "  but  in  autumn, 

When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the 
Mission." 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek 
and  submissive, 

"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad 
and  afflicted." 

So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ;  and  betimes 
on  the  morrow, 

Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian 
guides  and  companions. 

Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline 
stayed  at  the  Mission. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  days  succeeded  each 

other, — 
Days  and  weeks  and  months ;  and  the  fields  of 

maize  that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger  she  came, 

now  waving  above  her, 
Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing, 

and  forming 

Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pil 
laged  by  squirrels. 
Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was  husked, 

and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened 

a  lover, 
But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a  thief 

in  the  corn-field . 
Even   the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought 

not  her  lover. 
" Patience  !  "   the  priest  would  say  ;  "have  faith, 

and  thy  prayer  will  be  answered  ! 
Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its  head 

from  the  meadow, 
Bee  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north,  as  true 

as  the  magnet ; 


This  is  the   compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of 

God  has  planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the  traveller's 

journey 
Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  v/aste  of  the 

desert. 
Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.     The  blossoms 

of  passion, 
Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller 

of  fragrance, 
But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their 

odor  is  deadly. 
Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and 

hereafter 
Crown    us   with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet 

with  the  dews  of  nepenthe. " 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the  win 
ter, — yet  Gabriel  came  not ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of 

the  robin  and  bluebird 

Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet  Ga 
briel  came  not. 
:  But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a  rumor 

was  wafted 
;  Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,    or  hue  or  odor  of 

blossom. 

'  Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michi 
gan  forests, 
Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw 

River. 
And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes 

of  St.  Lawrence, 
Saying  a  sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the 

Mission. 
|  When   over  weary   ways,   by  long  and  perilous 

marches, 
,  She  had  attained  at  length   the   depths  of  the 

Michigan  forests, 

!  Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and  fallen 
to  ruin ! 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in 

seasons  and  places 
Divers  and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wandering 

maiden ; — 
Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace. of  the  meek  Moravian 

Missions, 
Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of 

the  army, 
!  Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and  populous 

cities. 
•  Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unre- 

membered. 
I  Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the 

long  journey ; 
|  Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment 

it  ended. 
j  Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from 

her  beauty, 
Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom 

and  the  shadow. 
Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of 

gray  o'er  her  forehead, 
Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her  earthl 

horizon, 

As  in  the  Eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  o* 
the  morning. 

V. 

IN  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the 
Delaware's  waters. 

Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the 
apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the 
city  he  founded. 

There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  em 
blem  of  beauty. 

And  the  streets  still  re-echo  the  names  of  the 
trees  of  the  forest, 


EVANGELINE. 


97 


As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose 

haunts  they  molested. 
There    from    the   troubled  sea  had   Evangeline 

landed,  an  exile, 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and 

a  country. 
There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died  ;  and  when  he 

departed, 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  de 
scendants. 
Something    at  least  there   was  in  the  friendly 

streets  of  the  city, 
Bomething  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  j 

no  longer  a  stranger  ; 
And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and  Thou  j 

of  the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country, 
Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  wero  brothers 

and  sisters. 
Bo,  when  the  fruitless  search,   the  disappointed 

endeavor. 

Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  un 
complaining, 
Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her 

thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 
As  from  a  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the 

morning 
Roll   away,   and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape 

below  us, 
Sun-illnmined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and 

hamlets, 
So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the 

world  far  below  her, 
Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love  ;  and 

the  pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth  and 

fair  in  the  distance. 
Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.    Within  her  heart  was 

his  image, 
Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last 

she  beheld  him, 
Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  deathlike  silence 

and  absence. 
Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it 

was  not. 
Over    him    years   had   no   power ;    he    was   not 

changed,  but  transfigured ; 
He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead, 

and  not  absent ; 
Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to 

others, 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had 

taught  her. 
So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous 

spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air 

with  aroma. 
Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to 

follow 
Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of 

her  Saviour. 
Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy ; 

frequenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes 

of  the  city, 
Where  distress  and  want   concealed   themselves 

from  the  sunlight, 
Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished 

neglected. 
Night  after  night,  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as 

the  watchman  repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well 

in  the  city, 
High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of 

her  taper. 
Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow 

through  the  suburbs 
Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and 

fruits  for  the  market, 
Met  he   that  meek,   pale  face,  returning  home 

from  its  watchings. 
7 


Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence  fell  on 

the  city, 
Presaged    by  wondrous    signs,    and    mostly  by 

flocks  of  wild  pigeons, 
Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  with  naught  in 

their  craws  but  an  acorn. 
And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month 

of  September, 
Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a 

lake  in  the  meadow, 
So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its  natural 

margin, 
Spread  to  a  brackish  lake,  the  silver  stream  of 

existence. 
Wealth   had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to 

charm,  the  oppressor ; 
But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his 

anger  ;— 
Only,  alas !    the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends 

nor  attendants, 
Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the 

homeless. 
Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of 

meadows  and  woodlands  ; — 
Now  the  city  surrounds  it ;   but  still,  with   its 

gateway  and  wicket 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls 

seem  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord: — "The  poor  ye 

always  have  with  you." 
Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of 

Mercy.    The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to 

behold  there 
Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle   her  forehead 

with  splendor, 
Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints 

and  apostles, 
Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen  at  a 

distance. 
Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city 

celestial, 
Into  whose   shining  gates   erelong  their   spirits 

would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets, 

deserted  and  silent, 
Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of 

the  almshouse. 
Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers 

in  the  garden ; 
And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest 

among  them, 
That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their 

fragrance  and  beauty. 
Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors, 

cooled  by  the  east-wind, 
Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from 

the  belfry  of  Christ  Church, 
While,    intermingled    with    these,    across    the 

meadows  were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes 

in  their  church  at  Wicaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour 

on  her  spirit ; 
Something  within  her  said,  "  At  length  thy  trials 

are  ended  ;  " 
And,  with  light  in   her  looks,  she  entered  the 

chambers  of  sickness, 
Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful 

attendants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow, 

and  in  silence 

Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  con 
cealing  their  faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of 

snow  by  the  roadside. 
Many   a  languid  head,    upraised  as   Evangeline 

entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she 

passed,  for  her  presence 


EVANGELINE. 


Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evaugeline  knelt. 


Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the 

walls  of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death, 

the  consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed 

it  forever. 
Many  familiar    forms  had  disappeared    in  the 

night  time ; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by 

strangers. 


Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling  of 

wonder, 
Still  she   stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart, 

while  a  shudder 
Ban    through    her    frame,    and,   forgotten,   the 

flowerets  dropped  from  her  fingers, 
And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and 

bloom  of  the  morning. 
Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such 

terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from 

their  pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form 

of  an  old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that 

shaded  his  temples ; 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a 

moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its 

earlier  manhood ; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who 

are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of 

the  fever, 


As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  be 
sprinkled  its  portals, 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and 
pass  over. 

Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  toe  lay,  and  his  spirit 
exhausted 

Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite 
depths  in  the  darkness, 

Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking 
and  sinking, 

Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied 
reverberations, 

Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush 
that  succeeded 

Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and 
saint-like, 

"Gabriel !  O  my  beloved !  "  and  died  away  into 
silence. 

Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home 
of  his  childhood ; 

Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers 
among  them, 

Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands ;  and, 
walking  under  their  shadow, 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in 
his  vision. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  and  as  slowly  he  lifted 
his  eyelids, 

Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt 
by  his  bedside. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  ac 
cents  unuttered 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what 
his  tongue  would  have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise  ;  and  Evangeline,  kneel 
ing  beside  him, 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE 


99 


Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  ''  Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  be- 

bosom.  side  them. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  ;  but  it  suddenly    Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are 

sanl".  into  darkness,  at  rest  and  forever, 

As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind    Thousands    of    aching    brains,  where    theirs  no 
at  a  Casement.  longer  are  busy, 

Thousands    of   toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have 
All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  ceased  from  their  labors, 

the  sorrow,  Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  com 

pleted  their  journey  ! 


All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsatisfied 

longing, 
All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of 

patience  ! 
And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to 

her  bosom, 
Meekly  she    bowed    her   own,    and    murmured, 

'•  Father,  I  thank  thee  !  " 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  under  the 

shade  of  its  branches 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  lan 
guage. 
Only  along  the  shore  of    the  mournful  and  misty 

Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian   peasants,   whose  fathers 

from  exile 
Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its 

bosom. 
In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are 

still  busy  ; 
STILL  stands  the  forest  primeval ;    but  far  away  !  Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their 

from  its  shadow,  kirtles  of  homespun, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  |  And    by   the    evening    fire   repeat   Evangeline's 

are  sleeping.  story, 

Under  the    humble  walls    of    the  little  Catholic  !  While  from  its  rocky    caverns   the  deep-voiced, 

churchyard,  neighboring  ocean 

In  the  heart  of  the   city,  they  lie,   unknown  and  \  Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 
unnoticed.  wail  of  the  forest. 


THE   SEASIDE 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


DEDICATION. 

As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 
And    seeing    not    the  forms    from  which    they 

come, 

Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  heark 
ens  ; 

80  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends  ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assist 
ance. 


If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand-fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  ! 
Thanks    for    each   kindly    word,    each    silent 

token, 

That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 
Friends   are   around  us,    though   no  word  be 
spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land  ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  his 
tory, 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand, — 

One  touch  of  fire, — and  all  the  rest  is  mystery  ! 


I  The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 
And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 
Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces  ! 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold. 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and  sem 
blance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old. 
But  live  forever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away  ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends. 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  na 
tions, 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 
With   the   same  hopes,   and  fears,  and  aspira 
tions. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  yonr  warm    fireside,  when  the  lamps    are 
lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest. 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  ! 


100 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


BY  THE   SEASIDE. 


In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  master, 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel. 


THE  BUILDING  OP  THE  SHIP. 

"  BUILD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master  ! 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips. 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 

He  answered,  "  Erelong  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  stanch, 

As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea  !  " 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 

Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 

Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 

What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature ; 

That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 

The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 


And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 

Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 

Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "Our  ship,  I  wis. 

Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  !  " 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed ; 
Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 
A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast, 
Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 
Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  master, 

With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 
Lay  the  timber  piled  around ; 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


101 


Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  -with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Boanoke ! 

Ah  !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion ! 

There's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 
And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 
As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 
Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 
That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 
Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 
Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  master,  when  he  spoke, 
A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 
Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 
Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 
The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 
The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 
Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 
Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again ; — 
The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 
The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 


The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's  hand, 
When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 
What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

"Thus,"  said  he,  "  will  we  build  this  ship  ! 

Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  UNION  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  !" 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride, 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach ; 

But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command ! 


"  Standing  before  Her  father's  door, 
He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride." 


102 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


The  jaded  steers,  panting  beneath  the  goad. 


It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  excelleth  all  the  rest ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 

With  vigorous  arras  on  every  side ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 

The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 

Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun. 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 

The  young  man  at  the  master's  door 

Sat  with  the  maiden,  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 

Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  coasting  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 


And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands. 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 

Where  the  tumbling  surf, 

O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar. 

Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  1 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  glf  am 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream ; 

And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 

What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 

That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 

Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fastened  strong  and  true, 

Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 

The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 

Till  after'many  a  week,  at  length, 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk. 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


108 


With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  master  and  his  men  : — 

"  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 
•  And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

'Vith  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  b'.a-t; 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  master's  daughter  ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light. 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last, 
Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 
Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 
When  upon  mountain  and  plain 
Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell, — those  lordly  pines  ! 
Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 
'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 
The  jaded  steers, 
Panting  beneath  the  goad, 
Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 
Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 
To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 
And,  naked  and  bare. 
To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 
Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 
Of  their  native    forests    they    should    not    see 
again. 

And  everywhere 
The  slender,  graceful  spars 
Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 
And  at  the  mast-head, 
White,  blue,  and  red, 
A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 
Ah !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 
In  foreign  harbors  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled 
'T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land. 
Filling    his    heart    with    memories    sweet    and 
endless  ! 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and   of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 


The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled. 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

[Tp  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shroudc, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head ; 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 

Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of  the  sailor's  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 

With  such  resistless  undertow, 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 

The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 

Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he  : — 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  !  " 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

4nd  at  the  word, 


104 


CHRYSAOR. 


With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms. 


Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,—- she  moves, — she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms ! 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  grayT 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  !  " 

How  beautiful  she  is  !    How  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  ! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 


And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great  ! 

Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel. 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  !        V 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 

'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  pur  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears. 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee  ! 


CHRYSAOR. 

JUST  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 


THE  SECRET  OF  TELE  SEA.— SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 


105 


Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 

And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 
Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 
Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly 

Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 
That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly  ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 

An  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sandal, 

Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 
And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 

Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 
Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 

And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach, 

Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 
With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence, 

Flow  its   unrhymed  lyric  lines  ; — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 

Steering  onward  to  the  land  ; — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 

Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 
That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 

Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong, — 

*••  Helmsman  !  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song  !  " 

"  Wouldst  thou," — so  the  helmsman  answered, 

"Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 

Comprehend  its  mystery  !  " 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  land  ward- bio  wing  breeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 

For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 
And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 

Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 


But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Xow  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  y 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean. 
And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek '{ 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 

SOUTHWAKD  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  su?i ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

L'eaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore. 

Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 
"  Do  not  fear  !  Heaven  is  as  near," 

He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land  !  " 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night. 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast  as  it  passed. 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock  ; 
Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 
With  mist  and  rain,  o'  er  the  open  main  ; 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place! 


106 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE.— THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFTWOOD. 


Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf-stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

THE  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away, 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  the  glare  ! 

Not  one  alone ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 
Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night  o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 
They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their 
sails 

Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 
And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink , 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 

Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night 

Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace  ; 
It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 

And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 
Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 


It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

"  Sail  on  !  "  it  says,  "  sail  on,  ye  stately  ships  ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span ; 
Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man  !  " 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEHEUX  FARM,  NEAR  MARBLEHEAB 

WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, 
The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  .secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships. 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire, 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 

The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 
The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed  !     O  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin. 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


RESIGNATION.- SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR-GLASS. 


BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 


RESIGNATION. 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howspe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient  !     These  severe  afflictions 

Nob  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  ses  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps, 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !     What  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath. 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  frem  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air, 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 

Thinking    that    our   remembrance,    though   un 
spoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
vn  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 


fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 
Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE  BUILDERS. 

ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 


Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 
Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  , 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 
Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain. 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND   OF  THE  DESERT   IN  AN  HOUR 
GLASS. 

A  HANDFUL  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 

How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 

Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 
When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 

His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 

Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread  ; 
Or  Pharaoh's  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 

Scattered  it  as  they  sped ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 

Held  close  in  her  caress, 
Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness  ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi's  palms 

Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 

In  half-articulate  speech  ; 


108 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 

With  westward  steps  depart ; 
Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed  ! 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I  gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand ; 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

A.nd  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 

Across  the  boundless  plain, 
The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !     These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  ; 

The  half-hour's  sand  is  run ! 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

BLACK  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky  ; 


And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 

But  the  night  is  fair, 
And  everywhere 
A  warm,  soft  vapor  fills  the  air, 
And  distant  sounds  seem  near ; 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea. 

I  hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 
But  their  forms  I  cannot  see. 

O,  say  not  so  ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wrongs, 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 
With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


I  saw  the  nursery  windows  wide  open  to  the  air. 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW.— PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 


109 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches,  — 

With  sweet,  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 

WITLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 

Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 
To  the  merry  monks  of  Groyland 

His  drinking-horn  bequeathed, — • 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 
In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 

Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 

Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 
And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 

They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies  ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartholomagus, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  nickered, 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 

He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 
In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 


But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  !  " 


GASPAR  BECERRA 

Br  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

StiJl  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  wa.s  an  image  of  the  Virgin 

That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But,  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 
Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought ; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 
And  the  day's  humiliation 

Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master  ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  thai  stirs  within  thee  !  " 

And  the  startled  artist  woke, — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet  ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 

ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaun  t  and  grim ; 

'T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor. 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier. 

Ringing  loud  his  bra/en  bell, 
Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming       x 

There  was  an  estray  to  59!!. 


110 


TEGNER'S  DRAPA.— THE  SINGERS. 


And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Pell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars,. 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighboring  farm-yard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed... 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER'S  DRAPA. 

I  HEARD  a  voice,  that  cried, 

"  Balder  the  Beautiful 

Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 

And  through  the  misty  air 

Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 

Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I  saw  the  pallid  corpse 

Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 

Blasts  from  Niffelheim 

Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 

Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  forever  cried, 
"Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 
And  died  away 
Through  the  dreary  night, 
In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 
God  of  the  summer  sun, 
Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 
Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 
As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 
Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 
All  save  the  misletoe, 
The  sacred  misletoe ! 


Header,  the  blind  old  God, 
Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud 
Made  of  the  misletoe, 
The  accursed  misletoe ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 
With  horse  and  harness, 
As  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
Odin  placed 
A  ring  upon  his  finger, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship ! 

It  floated  far  away 

Over  the  misty  sea, 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 

Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 

Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 
But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a  new  land  of  song. 
Fairer  than  the  old. 
Over  its   meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O  ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 

Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love  ! 

The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails  ! 
Thor,  the  thunderer, 
Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 
O  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  ! 


SONNET. 

ON  MBS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM  SHAKE 
SPEARE. 

O  PRECIOUS  evenings !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 
And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 
Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 
Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 
Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

O  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 
The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have 

caught 
The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 

O  happy  Poet !  by  no  critic  vext ! 
How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 


THE  SINGERS. 

GOD  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth. 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 


SUSPIRIA.— THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CAST^L-CUILLE. 


1H 


The  first,  a  youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre  ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

"  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


SUSPIRIA. 

TAKE  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 

Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 


Take  them,  O  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 

Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust ! 


HYMN 

FOR  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION. 

CHRIST  to  the  young  man  said  :   "  Yet  one  thing 

more ; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 
i  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 
And  come  and  follow  me  !  " 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 

Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 
And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 

Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 

The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 
That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 

"  Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  V  " 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 

To  make  the  scene  more  fair ; 
Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 

Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O  holy  trust !  O  endless  sense  of  rest ! 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour's  breast. 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CAST^L-GUILLE, 

FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 

Only  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright ; 
Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill ; 
And  take,  O  Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


I, 

AT  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 

Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 
When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  tree 

In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 

This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 
On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  Eve  : 

"  The   roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  ' 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending  ; 
When  lo  !  a  merry  company 

Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 
Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 


Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain  ; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 

Together  blending, 

And  soon  descending 

The  narrow  sweep 

Of  the  hillside  steep, 

They  wind  aslant 

Towards  Saint  Amant, 

Through  leafy  alleys 

Of  verdurous  valleys 

With  merry  sallies 

Singing  their  chant : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 


112 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLfc. 


it  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The  sky  was  blue  ;  without  one  cloud  of  gloom, 
The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 

And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A  rustic  bridal,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  ! . 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 
A  band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest  and 

merriest ; 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries  . 
' '  Those  who  catch  me 
Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be  !  " 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue. 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  .the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 

That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedeth  a  fall  ? 
O  no  !  for  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 
Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  ! 

What  lovers  !  they  give  not  a  single  caress  ! 

To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 
These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 

What  ails  Baptiste  ?  what  grief  doth  him  oppress  ? 

It  is,  that,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a  veteran  old  ; 
And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 
That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 
Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 
And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 
Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 
For  them  the  altar  was  prepared  ; 
But  alas  !  the  summer's  blight, 
The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 

All  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed  ; 
Their  peace  was    gone,   but  not  their   love  es 
tranged. 
Wearied  at  home,  erelong  the  lover  fled  ; 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 
"  Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 
Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  !  "     And  by  a  foun 
tain's  side 

A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears, 


And  all  towards  her  run.  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 
Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 
She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 
She  promises  one  a  village  swain, 
Another  a  happy  wedding-day, 
And  the  bride  a  lovely  boy  straightway. 
All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers  ; 
She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a  countenance  severe, 
And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
Who,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view  ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say  : — 
"Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  ! 
Lest,    when  thou  weddest  this  false  bride-. 

groom, 

Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  !  " 
And  she  was  silent ;  and  the  maidens  fair 
Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear  ; 
But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 
What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again ; 
i  The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear  ; — • 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies, 
They  sang  the  refrain  : — 

"The  roads  should  blossom,    the  roads   should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Stould  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  "• 


II. 

AND  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 
But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 
Thus  lamented  Margaret, 
In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  : — 

"  He  has  arrived  !  arrived  at  last ! 
Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days 
past; 

Arrived  !  yet  keeps  aloof  so  far ! 
And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star  ! 
Knows  that  long  months  I  wait  alone,  benighted. 
And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away  ! 
Come  !  keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day, 
That  I  may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I  plighted  ! 
What  joy  have  I  without  thee  ?  what  delight  ? 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery  ; 
Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 

Forever  night !  forever  night ! 
When  he  is  gone  't  is  dark  !  my  soul  is  sad  ! 
I  suffer  !  O  my  God !  come,  make  me  glad. 
When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude  ; 
Day  has   blue   heavens,    but  Baptiste   has  blue 

eyes ! 

Within  them  shines  for  me  a  heaven  of  love, 
A  heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 

No  more  of  grief  !  no  more  of  lassitude  ! 
Earth  I  forget, — and  heaven,  and  all  distresses, 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all ! 
Where  is  Baptiste  V  he  hears  not  when  I  call ! 
A  branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 

I  need  some  bough  to  twine  around  ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CTJILLE. 


113 


In  pity  come  !  be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 
True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound  ! 
What  then —when  one  is  blind  ? 

"  Who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  am  forsaken  ! 
Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  then  bear  me  to  my  grave ! 

0  God !  what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
A.way  !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  ! 

He  will  return  !  I  need  not  fear  ! 

He  swore  it  b.y  our  Saviour  dear  ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill ! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 

Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise  ! 
But  some  one  comes!     Though  blind,  my  heart 

can  see ! 
And  that  deceives  me  not !  't  is  he  !  't  is  he  !  " 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,     with    outstretched    arms,    but    sightless 

eyes  ; 
'T  is  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries  :— 

"  Angela  the  bride  has  passed  ! 

1  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 

Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked  ? 
For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I !  " 

' '  Angela  married  !  and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

O,  speak  !  who  may  \,he  bridegroom  be  ?  " 

"My  sister,  'tis  Baptiste,  thy  friend!  " 

A  cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said  ; 

A  milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks  ; 
An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 
Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to  beat, 
Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 

She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  distressed, 

A  wax  Madonna  as  a  peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

"  Hark  !  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 
Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing  '? 
How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest ! 
Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest ! 
I  would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray, 
And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay  ; 
Perhaps  they  will  come  ;  for  they  do  not  wed 
Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is  said! '' 
"•  I  know  it !  "  answered  Margaret ; 

Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 
Mastered  again  ;  and  its  hand  of  ice 

Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a  vice  ! 

"•  Paul,  be  not  sad  !     'T  is  a  holiday  ; 
To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 
But  leave  me  now  for  a  while  alone." 
Away,  with  a  hop  and  a  jump,  went  Paul, 
And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  what  dreadful  heat  ! 
I  am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath  ! 
But  thou  art  cold, — art  chill  as  death  ; 
My  little  friend  !  what  ails  thee,  sweet '? " 

"Nothing!     I    heard    them   singing    home   the 

bride  ; 

And,  as  I  listened  to  the  song, 
I  thought  my  turn  would  come  erelong, 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 
To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 
Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 
And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 

It  must  seem  long  to  him  ; — methinks  I  see  him 
now !  " 

8 


Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press  : 
"Thy  love  I  cannot  all  approve  ; 
We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness  ; — 
Go,  pray   to   God,    that  thou   mayest  love  him 

less  !  " 

"  The  more  I  pray  the  more  I  love  ! 
It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  !  " 
It  was  enough  ;  and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold ; 
But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a  sweet,  contented  air ; 
Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 
At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 
Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 

So  that,  departing  at  the  evening's  close, 

She  says,    "She  may  be  saved  !  she  nothing 
knows  !  " 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  prophetess  ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art  ! 


III. 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 
And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently  ! 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 
The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 
Has  neither  crown  nor  flower's  perfume  ; 

But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 
That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 

And,  'iieath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye, 
Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

'Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor, 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
' '  O  God  !  forgive  me  now  !  " 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 

Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand, 

Towards    the     church,    through    paths   un- 

scaimed, 
With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 

Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 
Round  her  at  times  exhale, 

And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 
But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 
Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  highi  degree, 

A  little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  buildcd  there  ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof. 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 

"  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by  !  " 
Thus    Margaret    said.      •"  Where    are    we  ?    we 
ascend  !  " 

u  Yes  ;  seest  thou  not  our  journey's  end  ? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  cry  ? 


Ill 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 
The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 
'  O  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low  ; 

Take  care  of  Paul ;  I  feel  that  1  am  dying  ! ' 

And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  ? 

Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud  ; 

And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 

There  is  his  grave  ;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set ; 

Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret  ? 
Come  in  !  The  bride  will  be  here  soon : 

Thou  tremblest !     O  my  God  !  thou  art  going  to 
swoon !  " 

She  could  no  more, — the  blind  girl,   weak   and 

weary ! 

A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  dreary, 
"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter  ?  "—and 
she  started, 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  evermore 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door  ; 
And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 

Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 

Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 

No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 

She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed, 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night 

They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 
With  booming  sound, 
Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  and  down  the  dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 
For  lo  !  Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 
Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis  ; 
To  be  a  bride  is  all !     The  pretty  lisper 
Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whis 
per, 
"  How  beautiful !  how  beautiful  she  is !  " 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 

For  already  the  Mass  is  said  ; 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest ; 
The  wedding  ring  is  blessed ;  Baptiste  receives  it ; 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least  ! 
'Tis  spoken  ;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side 
l"T  is  he  !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold    their 

breath, 

Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see  ! 
"Baptiste,"  she  said,  "since  thou  hast  wished 

my  death, 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !  " 
And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 

For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse 
The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air  ; 
Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear ; 


Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
No,  ah  no  !  for  each  one  seemed  to  say  :  — 

' '  The  road  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away  ! 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FROM   THE  NOEI  BOURGUIGNON  DE  GUI  BAROZAJ. 

I  HEAR  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 
Hark  !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes  ; 
Loud  the  gleemen- sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 
For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

Washerwomen  old, 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
vVith  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expira 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings  ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


115 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


There  he  sang  of  Iliawatha. 


INTRODUCTION. 


SHOULD  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories  '1 

Whence  these  legends  and  traditions, 

With  the  odors  of  the  forest, 

With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows, 

With  the  curling  smoke  of  wigwams, 

With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 

With  their  frequent  repetitions, 

And  their  wild  reverberations, 

As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ? 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
"From  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 
From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland, 
From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands, 
Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 
I  repeat  them  as  I  heard  them 
From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 
The  musician,  the  sweet  singer." 

Should  you  ask  where  Nawadaha 
Found  these  songs,  so  wild  and  wayward, 
Found  these  legends  and  traditions, 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
"  In  the  bird's-nests  of  the  forest, 
In  the  lodges  of  the  beaver, 
In  the  hoof-prints  of  the  bison, 
In  the  eyry  of  the  eagle  ! 

"  All  the  wild -fowl  sang  them  to  him, 
In  the  moorlands  and  the  fen-lands, 
In  the  melancholy  marshes  ; 
Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them. 


Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa  !  " 

If  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Saying,  "Who  was  Nawadaha  V 
Tell  us  of  this  Nawadaha," 
I  should  answer  your  inquiries 
Straightway  in  such  words  as  follow. 

' '  In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 
By  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 
Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadows  and  the  corn-fields, 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 
Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 
Ever  sighing,  ever  singing. 

"  And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
You  could  trace  them  through  the  valley, 
By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 
By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 
By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 
By  the  black  line  in  the  Winter  ; 
And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer, 
In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha. 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

"  There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 
How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 
How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered, 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people  !  " 


118 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 
And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries ; — 
Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people, 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken ; — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Touch  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened  ; — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country, 
Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 
Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard, 
For  a  while  to  muse,  and  ponder 
On  a  half-effaced  insciiption, 
Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  arid  yet  of  heart-break, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter  ; — 
Stay  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 
Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 
I. 

THE   PEACE-PIPE. 

ON  the  Mountain;  of  the  Prairie, 
On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
He  the  Master  of  Life,  descending, 
On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 

From  his  footprints  flowed  a  river, 
Leaped  into  the  light  of  morning, 
O'er  the  precipice  plunging  downward 
Gleamed  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet. 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward, 
With  his  finger  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a  winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  "Run  in  this  way  !  " 

From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a  fragment, 
Moulded  it  into  a  pipe-head, 
Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  figures; 
From  the  margin  of  the  river 
Took  a  long  reed  for  a  pipe-stem, 


With  its  dark  green  leaves  upon  it ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow  ; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighboring  forest, 
Made  its  great  boughs  chafe'  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  burst  and  kindled ; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty. 
Smoked  the  calumet,  the  Peace-Pipe, 
As  a  signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  smoke  rose  slowly,  slowly, 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning, 
First  a  single  line  of  darkness, 
Then  a  denser,  bluer  vapor, 
Then  a  snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 
Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest, 
Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 
Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven, 
Till  it  broke  against  the  heaven. 
And  rolled  outward  all  around  it. 

EYom  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
From  the  Valley  of  Wyoming, 
From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 
From  the  far-off  Rocky  M  ountains, 
From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 
Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  to  the  nations 
Said :    "  Behold  it,  the  Pukwana  ! 
By  this  signal  from  afar  off, 
Bending  like  a  wand  of  willow, 
Waving  like  a  hand  that  beckons, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 
Calls  the  warriors  to  his  council  !  " 

Down  the  rivers,  o'er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations. 
Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks, 
Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanches, 
Came  the  Shoshonies  and  Blackfeet, 
Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omahas, 
Came  the  Mandans  and  Dacotahs, 
Came  the  Hurons  and  Ojibways, 
All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 
To  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
To  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there  on  the  meadow, 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war -gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Wildly  glaring  at  each  other  ; 
In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 
In  their  hearts  the  fends  of  ages, 
The  hereditary  hatred, 
The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  creator  of  the  nations, 
Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
With  paternal  love  and  pity ; 
Looked  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 
But  as  quarrels  among  children. 
But  as  feuds  and  fights  of  children  ! 

Over  them  he  stretched  his  right  hand, 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natures, 
To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 
By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand  ; 
Spake  to  them  with  voice  majestic 
As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 
Falling  into  deep  abysses, 
Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise  : — 

"  O  my  children  !  my  poor  children  ! 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  words  of  warning, 
From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
From  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you ! 

"I  have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 
I  have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in, 
1  have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 
I  have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


117 


I  have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild-fowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes  ; 
Why  then  are  you  not  contented  ? 
Why  then  will  you  hunt  each  other  ? 

' '  I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 
Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 
Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 
Of  your  wranglings,  and  dissensions  ; 
All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 
All  your  danger  is  in  discord  ; 
Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 
And  as  brothers  live  together. 

l>  I  will  send  a  Prophet  to  you, 
A  Deliverer  of  the  nations, 
Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you, 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  witli  you. 
If  you  listen  to  his  counsels. 
You  will  multiply  and  prosper  ; 
If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 
You  will  fade  away  and  perish  ! 

"  Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 
Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 
Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons, 
Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 
Mould  and  make  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you, 
Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 
And  as  brothers  live  henceforward  !  " 

Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deerskin, 
Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 
Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 
Clear  and  limpid  from  the  footprints 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending  ; 
Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 
Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it  ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 
Clean  and  washed  from  all  their  war-paint ; 
On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  warlike  weapons. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  creator, 
Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children ! 

And  in  silence  all  the  warriors 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 
Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Broke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 
Decked  them  with  their  brightest  feathers, 
And  departed  each  one  homeward, 
While  the  Master  of  Life,  ascending. 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains, 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven, 
Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 
In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe  ! 


II. 


THE  FOUR  WINDS. 

"  HONOR  be  to  Mudjekeewis  !  " 
Cried  the  warriors,  cried  the  old  men. 
When  he  came  in  triumph  homeward 
With  the  sacred  Belt  of  Wampum, 
From  the  regions  of  the  North-Wind, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  had  stolen  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
From  the  neck  of  Mishe-Mokwa, 
From  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
From  the  terror  of  the  nations, 
As  he  lay  asleep  and  cumbrous 
On  the  summit  of  the  mountains, 
Like  a  rock  with  mosses  on  it, 


Spotted  brown  and  gray  with  mosses. 

Silently  he  stole  upon  him, 
Till  the  red  nails  of  the  monster 
Almost  touched  him,  almost  scared  him, 
Till  the  hot  breath  of  his  nostrils 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis, 
As  he  drew  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
Over  the  round  ears,  that  heard  not, 
Over  the  small  eyes,  that  saw  not, 
Over  the  long  nose  and  nostrils, 
The  black  mutfle  of  the  nostrils, 
Out  of  which  the  heavy  breathing 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis. 

Then  he  swung  aloft  his  war-club, 
Shouted  loud  and  long  his  war-cry, 
Smote  the  mighty  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 
Right  between  the  eyes  he  smote  him. 

With  the  heavy  blow  bewildered, 
Rose  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains  ; 
But  his  knees  benea'th  him  trembled, 
And  he  whimpered  like  a  woman, 
As  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
As  he  sat  upon  his  haunches  ; 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Standing  fearlessly  before  him, 
Taunted  him  in  loud  derision, 
Spake  disdainfully  in  this  wise  : — • 

"  Hark  you,  Bear  !    you  are  a  coward, 
And  no  Brave,  as  you  pretended  ; 
Else  you  would  not  cry  aiul  whimper 
Like  a  miserable  woman  ! 
Bear  !    you  know  our  tribes  are  hostile, 
Long  have  been  at  war  together ; 
Now  you  find  that  we  are  strongest, 
You  go  sneaking  in  the  forest, 
You  go  hiding  in  the  mountains ! 
Had  you  conquered  me  in  battle 
Not  a  groan  would  I  have  uttered  ; 
But  you,  Bear  !    sit  here  and  whimper, 
And  disgrace  your  tribe  by  crying, 
Like  a  wretched  Shaugodaya, 
Like  a  cowardly  old  woman  !  " 

Then  again  he  raised  his  war-club, 
Smote  again  the  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  his  forehead, 
Broke  his  skull,  as  ice  is  broken 
j  When  one  goes  to  fish  in  Winter. 
Thus  was  slain  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
He  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
He  the  terror  of  the  nations. 

"  Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  !  " 
With  a  shout  exclaimed  the  people, 
"  Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! 
Henceforth  he  shall  be  the  West- Wind, 
And  hereafter  and  forever 
Shall  he  hold  supreme  dominion 
Over  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Call  him  no  more  Mudjekeewis, 
Call  him  Kabeyun.  the  West-Wind  !  " 

Thus  was  Mudjekeewis  chosen 
Father  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven. 
For  himself  he  kept  the  West- Wind, 
Gave  the  others  to  his  children  ; 
Unto  Wabun  gave  the  East- Wind, 
Gave  the  South  to  Shawandasee, 
And  the  North-Wind,  wild  and  cruel, 
To  the  fierce  Kabibonokka. 

Young  and  beautiful  was  Wabun ; 
He  it  was  who  brought  the  morning, 
He  it  was  whose  silver  arrows 
Chased  the  dark  o'er  hill  and  valley ; 
He  it  was  whose  cheeks  were  painted 
With  the  brightest  streaks  of  crimson, 
And  whose  voice  awoke  the  village, 
Called  the  deer,  and  called  the  hunter. 

Lonely  in  the  sky  was  Wabun  ; 
Though  the  birds  sang  gayly  to  him, 
Though  the  wild-flowers  of  the  meadow 
Filled  the  air  with  odoVs  for  him. 
Though  the  forest  and  the  rivers 


118 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Sang  and  shouted  at  his  coming, 
Still  his  heart  was  sad  within  him, 
For  he  was  alone  in  heaven. 

But  one  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
While  the  village  still  was  sleeping, 
And  the  fog  lay  on  the  river, 
Like  a  ghost,  that  goes  at  sunrise, 
He  beheld  a  maiden  walking 
All  alone  upon  a  meadow. 
Gathering  water-flags  and  rushes 
By  a  river  in  the  meadow. 

Every  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
Still  the  first  thing  he  beheld  there 
Was  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  him, 
Two  blue  lakes  among  the  rushes. 
And  he  loved  the  lonely  maiden, 
Who  thus  waited  for  his  coming ; 
For  they  were  both  solitary, 
She  on  earth  and  he  in  heaven. 

And  he  wooed  her  with  caresses, 
Wooed  her  with  his  smile  of  sunshine, 
With  his  flattering  words  he  wooed  her, 
With  his  sighing  and  his  singing, 
Gentlest  whispers  in  the  branches, 
Softest  music,  sweetest  odors, 
Till  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 
Folded  in  his  robes  of  crimson, 
Till  into  a  star  he  changed  her, 
Trembling  still  iipou.  his  bosom  ; 
And  forever  in  the  heavens 
They  are  seen  together  walking, 
Wabun  and  the  Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun  and  the  Star  of  Morning. 

But  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Has  his  dwelling  among  icebergs, 
In  the  everlasting  snow-drifts, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
In  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 
He  it  was  whose  hand  in  Autumn 
Painted  all  the  trees  with  scarlet, 
Stained  the  leaves  with  red  and  yellow ; 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  snow-flakes, 
Sifting,  hissing  through  the  forest, 
Froze  the  ponds,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
Drove  the  loon  and  sea-gull  southward, 
Drove  the  cormorant  and  curlew 
To  their  nests  of  sedge  and  sea-tang 
In  the  realms  of  Shawondasee. 

Once  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Issued  from  his  lodge  of  snow-drifts, 
From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 
And  his  hair,  with  snow  besprinkled, 
Streamed  behind  him  like  a  river, 
Like  a  black  and  wintry  river, 
As  he  howled  and  hurried  southward, 
Over  frozen  lakes  and  moorlands. 

There  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Found  he  Shingebis,  the  diver. 
Trailing  strings  of  fish  behind'  him, 
O'er  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands, 
Lingering  still  among  the  moorlands, 
Though  his  tribe  had  long  departed 
To  the  land  of  Shawondasee. 

Cried  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
"  Who  is  this  that  dares  to  brave  me  ? 
Dares  to  stay  in  my  dominions, 
When  the  Wawa  has  departed, 
When  the  wild-goose  has  gone  southward, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long  ago  departed  southward  ? 
I  will  go  into  his  wigwam, 
I  will  put  his  smouldering  fire  out !  " 

And  at  night  Kabibonokka 
To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  wailing, 
Heaped  the  snow  in  drifts  about  it, 
Shouted  down  into  the  smoke-flue, 
Shook  the  lodge-poles  in  his  fury, 
Flapped  the  curtain  of  the  door-way. 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  feared  not, 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  cared  not ; 
Four  great  logs  had  he  for  firewood, 


One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter, 
And  for  food  the  fishes  served  him. 
By  his  blazing  fire  he  sat  there. 
Warm  and  merry,  eating,  laughing, 
Singing,  "  O  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal !  " 

Then  Kabibonokka  entered, 
And  though  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Felt  his  presence  by  the  coldness, 
Felt  his  icy  breath  upon  him, 
Still  he  did  not  cease  his  singing, 
Still  he  did  not  leave  his  laughing, 
Only  turned  the  log  a  little, 
Only  made  the  fire  burn  brighter, 
Made  the  sparks  fly  up  the  smoke-flue. 

From  Kabibonokka's  forehead, 
From  his  snow-besprinkled  tresses, 
Drops  of  sweat  fell  fast  and  heavy, 
Making  dints  upon  the  ashes, 
As  along  the  eaves  of  lodges, 
As  from  drooping  boughs  of  hemlock, 
Drips  the  melting  snow  in  spring-time, 
Making  hollows  in  the  snow-drifts. 

Till  at  last  he  rose  defeated, 
Could  not  bear  the  heat  and  laughter, 
Could  not  bear  the  merry  einging, 
But  rushed  headlong  through  the  doorway, 
Stamped  upon  the  crusted  snow-drifts, 
Stamped  upon  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Made  the  snow  upon  them  harder, 
Made  the  ice  upon  them  thicker, 
Challenged  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  with  him, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  naked 
On  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands. 

Forth  went  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Wrrestled  all  night  with  the  Night- Wind, 
Wrestled  naked  on  the  moorlands 
With  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
Till  his  panting  breath  grew  fainter, 
Till  his  frozen  grasp  grew  feebler, 
Till  he  reeled  and  staggered  backward, 
And  retreated,  baffled,  beaten, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
To  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit, 
Hearing  still  the  gusty  laughter, 
Hearing  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Singing,  "  O  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal !  " 

Shawondasee,  fat  and  lazy, 
Had  his  dwelling  far  to  southward, 
In  the  drowsy,  dreamy  sunshine, 
In  the  never-ending  Summer. 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  wood-birds, 
Sent  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sent  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
Sent  the  Shawshaw,  sent  the  swallow, 
Sent  the  wild-goose,  Wawa,  northward, 
Sent  the  melons  and  tobacco, 
And  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters. 

From  his  pipe  the  smoke  ascending 
Filled  the  sky  with  haze  and  vapor, 
Filled  the  air  with  dreamy  softness, 
Gave  a  twinkle  to  the  water. 
Touched  the  rugged  hills  with  smoothness, 
Brought  the  tender  Indian  Summer 
To  the  melancholy  north-land, 
In  the  dreary  Moon  of  Snow-shoes. 

Listless,  careless  Shawondasee ! 
In  his  life  he  had  one  shadow, 
In  his  heart  one  sorrow  bad  he. 
Once,  as  he  was  gazing  northward, 
Far  away  upon  a  prairie 
He  beheld  a  maiden  standing, 
Saw  a  tall  and  slender  maiden 
All  alone  upon  a  prairie  ; 
Brightest  green  were  all  her  garments, 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  he  gazed  upon  her, 
Day  by  day  he  sighed  with  passion, 
Day  by  day  his  heart  within  him 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


119 


Grew  more  hot  with  love  and  longing 

For  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses. 

But  he  was  too  fat  and  lazy 

To  bestir  himself  and  woo  her  ; 

Yes,  too  indolent  and  easy 

To  pursue  her  and  persuade  her. 

So  he  only  gazed  upon  her, 

Only  sat  and  sighed  with  passion 

For  the  maiden  of  the  prairie. 

Till  one  morning,  looking  northward, 
Me  beheld  her  yellow  tresses 
Changed  and  covered  o'er  with  whiteness, 
Covered  as  with  whitest  snow-flakes. 
u  Ah  !  my  brother  from  the  Northland, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit ! 
You  have  stolen  the  maiden  from  me, 
You  have  laid  your  hand  upon  her, 
You  have  wooed  and  won  my  maiden, 
With  your  stories  of  the  Northland  !  " 
Thus  the  wretched  Shawondasee 
Breathed  into  the  air  his  sorrow  ; 
And  the  South-Wind  o'er  the  prairie 
Wandered  warm  with  sighs  of  passion, 
With  the  sighs  of  Shawondasee, 
Till  the  air  seemed  full  of  snow-flakes, 
Full  of  thistle-down  the  prairie, 
And  the  maid  with  hair  like  sunshine 
Vanished  from  his  sight  forever  ; 
Never  more  did  Shawondasee 
See  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses  ! 

Poor,  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 
'T  was  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at, 
'T  was  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for, 
'T  was  the  prairie  dandelion 
That  through  all  the  dreamy  Summer 
You  had  gazed  at  with  such  longing. 
You  had  sighed  for  with  such  passion, 
And  had  puffed  away  forever, 
Blown  into  the  air  with  sighing. 
Ah  !  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 

Thus  the  Four  Winds  were  divided  ; 
Thus  the  sons  of  Mudjekeewis 
Had  their  stations  in  the  heavens, 
At  the  corner  of  the  heavens  ; 
For  himself  the  West-Wind  only 
Kept  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis. 


IIL 

HIAWATHA'S  CHILDHOOD. 

DOWNWARD  through  the  evening  twilight, 

In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 

In  the  unremembered  ages, 

From  the  full  moon  fell  Nokomis, 

Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 

She  a  wife,  but  not  a  mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women 
Swinging  in  a  swing  of  grape-vines, 
When  her  rival,  the  rejected, 
Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred, 
Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 
Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 
And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 
"  See  !  a  star  falls  !  "  said  the  people ; 
"  From  the  sky  a  star  is  falling  !  " 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 
Fair  Nokomis  bore  a  daughter. 
And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 
As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 
And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 
Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 
Grew  a  tall  and  slender  maiden, 


With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 
Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 
"  O,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Of  the  West- Wind,  Mndjekeewis  ; 
Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you ; 
Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 
Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 
Lest  the  West- Wind  come  and  harm  you  !  " 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom, 
And  the  West- Wind  came  at  evening, 
Walking  lightly  o'er  the  prairie, 
Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 
Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 
Lying  there  among  the  lilies. 
Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 
Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 
Till  she  bore  a  son  in  sorrow, 
Bore  a  son  of  love  and  sorrow. 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 
Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder  ; 
i  But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
I  Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 
In  her  anguish  died  deserted 
By  the  West- Wind,  false  and  faithless, 
By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter,  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis  ; 
"  O  that  I  were  dead  !  ''  she  murmured, 
' '  O  that  I  were  dead,  as  thou  art ! 
No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
\\ahonowin  !    Wahonowin  !  " 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them  ; 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 

There  the  wrinkled,  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 
Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 
"  Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  thee  !  " 
Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 
"  Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet ! 
Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet !  " 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven ; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses  ; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 
Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter ; 
Showed  the  broad,  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha  ; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water, 
Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder  ; 
'^Minne-wawa  !  "  said  the  pine-trees, 
"  Mudway-aushka  !  "  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children. 


120 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


'  O  !  that  I  were  dead,"  ehe  murmured. 


Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him : 
"  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids !  " 

Saw  the  rnoon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 
"Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 
Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight ; 
Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her  ; 
'T  is  her  body  that  you  see  there." 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow. 
Whispered,  ' '  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"'T  is  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there ; 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us." 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried  in  terror  ; 
"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  Raid,  "Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 
"  That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 


Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene  'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Chickens." 

Of  all  the  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 
Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid. 
Talked  with  them  whene  'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Brothers." 

Then  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Made  a  bow  for  Hiawatha ; 
From  a  branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 
From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  flint,  and  winged  with  feathers, 
And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha  : 
"Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 
Where  the  red  deer  herd  together, 
Kill  for  us  a  famous  roebuck, 
Kill  for  us  a  deer  with  antlers  !  " 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 
Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows ; 
And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'  er  him, 
"  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  !  " 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  !  " 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
In  and  out  among  the  branches, 
Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing. 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


121 


"Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  ! '' 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a  distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches. 
Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic, 
Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 
"  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  !  "  ' 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them. 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer  ; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 
To  the  ford  across  the  river, 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 

Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 
There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came, 
Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 
Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 
And  a  deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 
And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 
Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated. 
As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising, 
Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow  ; 
Scarce  a  twig  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 
But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 
Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together, 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 
Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow ; 
Ah  !  the  stinging,  fatal  arrow, 
Like  a  wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him  ! 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest, 
By  the  ford  across  the  river  ; 
Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer, 
But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 
As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 
And  lagoo  and  Xokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer's  hide  Xokomis 
Made  a  cloak  for  Hiawatha, 
From  the  red  deer's  flesh  Nokomis 
Made  a  banquet  in  his  honor. 
All  the  village  came  and  feasted, 
All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 
Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha  ! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahn-go-taysee ! 


IV. 

HIAWATHA   AND    MUDJEKEEWIS. 

OUT  of  childhood  into  manhood 
Now  had  grown  my  Hiawatha, 
Skilled  in  all  the  craft  of  hunters, 
Learned  in  all  the  lore  of  old  men, 
In  all  youthful  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  all  manly  arts  and  labors. 

Swift  of  foot  was  Hiawatha ; 
He  could  shoot  an  arrow  from  him, 
And  run  forward  with  such  fleetness, 
That  the  arrow  fell  behind  him  ! 
Strong  of  arm  was  Hiawatha  ; 
He  could  shoot  ten  arrows  upward. 
Shoot  them  with  such  strength  and  swiftness, 
That  the  tenth  had  left  the  bow-string 
Ere  the  first  to  earth  had  fallen  ! 

He  had  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Magic  mittens  made  of  deer-skin  ; 
When  upon  his  hands  he  wore  them, 
He  could  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 
He  could  grind  them  into  powder. 
He  had  moccasins  enchanted, 
Magic  moccasins  of  deer-skin ; 
When  he  bound  them  round  his  ankles, 
When  upon  his  feet  he  tied  them, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ! 


Much  he  questioned  old  Nokomis 
Of  his  father  Mudjekeewis  ; 
Learned  from  her  the  fatal  secret 
Of  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
Of  the  falsehood  of  his  father ; 
And  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said  to  old  Nokomis, 
"  I  will  go  to  Mudjekeewis, 
See  how  fares  it  with  my  father. 
At  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind, 
At  the  portals  of  the  Sunset !  " 

From  his  lodge  went  Hiawatha, 
Dressed  for  travel,  armed  for  hunting ; 
Dressed  in  deer-skin  shirt  and  leggings, 
Richly  wrought  with  quills  and  wampum ; 
On  his  head  his  eagle-feathers, 
Round  his  waist  his  belt  of  wampum, 
In  his  hand  his  bow  of  ash-wood, 
Strung  with  sinews  of  the  reindeer  ; 
In  his  quiver  oaken  arrows. 
Tipped  with  jasper,  winged  with  feathers  : 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
With  his  moccasins  enchanted. 

Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis, 
"Go  not  forth,  O  Hiawatha  ! 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind, 
To  the  realms  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Lest  he  harm  you  with  his  magic, 
Lest  he  kill  you  with  his  cunning  !  " 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Heeded  not  her  woman's  warning; 
Forth  he  strode  into  the  forest, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ; 
Lurid  seemed  the  sky  above  him, 
Lurid  seemed  the  earth  beneath  him, 
Hot  and  close  the  air  around  him, 
Filled  with  smoke  and  fiery  vapors, 
As  of  burning  woods  and  prairies, 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

So  he  journeyed  westward,  westward, 
Left  the  fleetest  deer  behind  him, 
Left  the  antelope  and  bison  ; 
Crossed  the  rushing  Esconaba, 
Crossed  the  mighty  Mississippi, 
Passed  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
Passed  the  land  of  Crows  and  Foxes, 
Passed  the  dwellings  of  the  Blackfeet, 
Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
1  To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind, 
:  Where  upon  the  gusty  summits 
Sat  the  ancient  Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler  of  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Filled  with  awe  was  Hiawatha 
At  the  aspect  of  his  father. 
On  the  air  about  him  wildly 
Tossed  and  streamed  his  cloudy  tresses, 
Gleamed  like  drifting  snow  his"  tresses, 
Glared  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Like  the  star  with  fiery  tresses. 

Filled  with  joy  was  Mudjekeewis 
When  he  looked  on  Hiawatha, 
Saw  his  youth  rise  up  before  him 
In  the  face  of  Hiawatha, 
Saw  the  beauty  of  Wenonah 
From  the  grave  rise  up  before  him. 

u  Welcome  !  "  said  he,  "  Hiawatha, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind  ! 
Long  have  I  been  waiting  for  you  ! 
Youth  is  lovely,  age  is  lonely, 
Youth  is  fiery,  age  is  frosty  ; 
You  bring  back  the  days  departed, 
You  bring  back  my  youth  of  passion, 
And  the  beautiful  Wenonah  !  " 

Many  days  they  talked  together, 
Questioned,  listened,  waited,  answered ; 
Much  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Boasted  of  his  ancient  prowess, 
%i  Of  his  perilous  adventures. 
*i  His  indomitable  courage, 


122 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


His  invulnerable  body. 

Patiently  sat  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  father's  boasting  ; 
With  a  smile  he  sat  and  listened, 
Uttered  neither  threat  nor  menace, 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  him, 
But  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said,  "  O  Mudjekeewis, 
Is  there  nothing  that  can  harm  you  ? 
Nothing  that  you  are  afraid  of  1 " 
Atid  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Grand  and  gracious  in  his  boasting, 
Answered,  saying,   "  There  is  nothing,   • 
Nothing  but  the  black  rock  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  fatal  Wawbeek  !  ' 

And  he  looked  at  Hiawatha 
With  a  wise  look  and  benignant,  f  •  . 

With  a  countenance  paternal, 
Looked  with  pride  upon  the  beauty 
Of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure, 
Saying, " "  O  my  Hiawatha  ! 
Is  there  anything  can  harm  you  ? 
Anything  you  are  afraid  of?  " 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Paused  awhile,  as  if  uncertain, 
Held  his  peace,  as  if  resolving, 
And  then  answered,  "  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  bulrush  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  great  Apukwa !  " 

And  a,s  Mudjekeewis,  rising, 
Stretched  his  hand  to  pluck  the  bulrush, 
Hiawatha  cried  in  terror, 
Cried  in  well-dissembled  terror, 
"Kago  !  kago  !  do  not  touch  it !  " 
"  Ah,  kaween  !  "  said  Mudjekeewis, 
"  No.  indeed,  I  will  not  touch  it !  " 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters  ; 
First  of  Hiawatha's  brothers, 
First  of  Wabun,  of  the  East- Wind, 
Of  the  South- Wind,  Shawondasee, 
Of  the  North,  Kabibonokka  ; 
Then  of  Hiawatha's  mother, 
Of  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 
Of  her  birth  upon  the  meadow, 
Of  her  death,  as  old  Nokomis 
Had  remembered  and  related. 

And  he  cried,  "  O  Mudjekeewis,     , 
It  was  you  who  killed  Wenonah, 
Took  her  young  life  and  her  beauty, 
Broke  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie, 
Trampled  it  beneath  your  footsteps ; 
You  confess  it !  you  confess  it !  " 
".And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Tossed  upon  the  wind  his  tresses, 
Bowed  his  hoary  Bead  in  anguish, 
With  a  silent  nod -assented. 

Then  up  started  Hiawatha, 
And  with  threatening  look  and  gesture 
Laid  his  hand  upon  the  black  rock, 
On  the  fatal  Wawbeek  laid  it, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Rent  the  jutting  crag  asunder, 
Smote  and  crushed  it  into  fragments, 
Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father, 
The  remorseful  Mudjekeewis, 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

But  the  ruler  of  the  West-Wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him, 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nos'trils, 
With  the  tempest  of  his  anger, 
Blew  them  back  at  his  assailant ; 
Seized  the  bulrush,  the  Apukwa, 
Dragged  it  with  its  roots  and  fibres 
From  the  margin  of  the  meadow, 
From  its  ooze,  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
Long  and  loud  laughed  Hiawatha  ! 
Then  began  the  deadly  conflict, 
Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains  ; 
From  his  eyrie  screamed  the  eagle, 


The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle 
Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 
Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them. 

Like  a  tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek  ; 
Till  the  earth  shook  with  the  tumult 
And  confusion  of  the  battle, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  shoutings, 
And  the  thunder  of  the  mountains, 
Starting,  answered,  "Baim-wawa!" 

Back  retreated  Mudjekeewis, 
Rushing  westward  o'er  the  mountains, 
Stumbling  westward  down  the  mountains, 
Three  whole  days  retreated  fighting, 
Still  pur  sued  by  Hiawatha 
To  the  doorways  of  the  West- Wind, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  earth's  remotest  border, 
Where  into  the  empty  spaces 
Sinks  the  sun,  as  a  flamingo 
Drops  into  her  nest  at  nightfall, 
In  the  melancholy  marshes 

"  Hold  !  "  at  length  cried  Mudjekeewis, 
"  Hold,  my  son,  my  Hiawatha  ! 
'T  is  impossible  to  kill  me, 
For  you  cannot  kill  the  immortal. 
I  have  put  you  to  this  trial, 
But.  to  know  and  prove  your  courage  ; 
Now  receive  the  prize  of  valor  ! 

"  Go  back  to  your  home  and  people, 
Live  among  them,  toil  among  them, 
Cleanse  the  earth  from  all  that  harms  it, 
Clear  the  fishing-grounds  and  rivers, 
Slay  all  monsters  and  magicians, 
All  the  Wendigoes,  the  giants, 
All  the  serpents,  the  Kenabecks, 
As  I  slew  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

"  And  at  last  when  Death  draws  near  you, 
When  the  awful  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  you  in  the  darkness, 
I  will  share  my  kingdom  with  you, 
Ruler  shall  you  be  thenceforward 
Of  the  North  west- wind,  Keewaydin, 
Of  the  home-wind,  the  Keewaydin." 

Thus  was  fought  that  famous  battle 
In  the  dreadful  days  of  Shah-shah, 
In  the  days  long  since  departed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind. 
Still  the  hunter  sees  its  traces 
Scattered  far  e'er  hill  and  valley  ; 
Sees  the  giant  bulrush  growing 
By  the  ponds  and  water-courses, 
Sees  the  masses  of  the  Wawbeek 
Lying  still  in  every  valley. 

Homeward  now  went  Hiawatha  ; 
Pleasant  was  the  landscape  round  him, 
Pleasant  was  the  air  above  him, 
For  the  bitterness  of  anger 
Had  departed  wholly  from  him, 
From  his  brain  the  thought  of  vengeance, 
From  his  heart  the  burning  fever. 
Only  once  his  pace  he  slackened. 
Only  once  he  paused  or  halted, 
Paused  to  purchase  heads  of  arrows 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Where  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Flash  and  gleam  among  the  oak-trees, 
Laugh  and  leap  into  the  valley. 

There  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Made  his  arrow-heads  of  sandstone, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 
Smoothed  and  sharpened  at  the  edges, 
Hard  and  polished,  keen  and  costly. 

With  him  dwelt  his  dark-eyed  daughter, 
Wayward  as  the  Minnehaha, 
With  her  moods  of  shade  and  sunshine, 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Eyes  that  smiled  and  frowned  alternate, 

Feet  as  rapid  as  the  river, 

Tresses  flowing  like  the  water, 

And  as  musical  a  laughter  ; 

And  he  named  her  from  the  river, 

From  the  water-fall  he  named  her, 

Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water. 

Was  it  then  for  heads  of  arrows, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  Hint  and  jasper, 
That  my  Hiawatha  halted 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ? 

Was  it  not  to  see  the  maiden, 
See  the  face  of  Laughing  Water, 
Peeping  from  behind  the  curtain, 
Hear  the  rustling  of  her  garments 
From  behind  the  waving  curtain, 
As  one  sees  the  Minnehaha 
Gleaming,  glancing  through  the  branches, 
As  one  hears  the  Laughing  Water 
From  behind  its  screen  of  branches  ? 

Who  shall  say  what  thoughts  and  visions 
Fill  the  fiery  brains  of  young  men  V 
Who  shall  say  what  dreams  of  beauty 
Filled  the  heart  of  Hiawatha  'i 
All  he  told  to  old  Nokomis, 
When  he  reached  the  lodge  at  sunset, 
Was  the  meeting  with  his  father, 
Was  his  fight  with  Mudjekeewis  ; 
Not  a  word  he  said  of  arrows, 
Not  a  word  of  Laughing  Water. 


V 


HIAWATHA  S  FASTING. 

You  shall  hear  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and  fasted  in  the  forest, 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumphs  in  the  battle. 
And  renown  among  the  warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

First  he  built  a  lodge  for  fasting, 
Built  a  wigwam  in  the  forest, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 
In  the  blithe  and  pleasant  Spring-time, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  he  built  it. 
And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 
Seven  whole  days  and  nights  he  fasted. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 
Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered ; 
Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  the  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 
Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming, 
Heard  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Rattling  in  his  hoard  of  acorns, 
Saw  the  pigeon,  the  Omeme, 
Building  nests  among  the  pine-trees, 
And  in  flocks  the  wild  goose,  Wawa, 
Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 
Whirring,  wailing  far  above  him. 
"  Master  of  Life  !  "  he  cried,  desponding, 
"Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ?  ' 

On  the  next  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  river's  brink  he  wandered, 
Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 
Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 
And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin, 
And  the  gooseberry,  Shahbomin, 
And  the  grape-vine,  the  Bemahgut, 
Trailing  o'er  the  alder-branches,       , 
Filling  all  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 
"  Master  of  Life  !  "  he  cried,  desponding, 
1 '  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ?  ' 

On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 


By  the  still,  transparent  water  ; 

Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  leaping. 

Scattering  drops  like  beads  of  wampum, 

Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 

Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 

Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

And  the  herring,  Okahahwis, 

And  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish  ! 

"  Master  of  Life  !  "  he  cried,  desponding, 

"  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  *  " 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 
In  his  lodge  he  lay  exhausted  ; 
From  his  couch  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  wifti  half -open  eyelids, 
Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions, 
On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 
On  the  gleaming  of  the  water, 
On  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a  youth  approaching. 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow 
Coining  through  the  purple  twilight. 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  sunset ; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o'er  his  forehead, 
And  his  hair  was  soft  and  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open  doorway, 
Long  he  looked  at  Hiawatha, 
Looked  with  pity  and  compassion 
On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 
And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 
Of  the  South-Wind  in  the  tree-tops, 
Sa'd  he,  ''O  my  Hiawatha  ! 
All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven, 
For  you  pray  not  like  the  others  ; 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle. 
Nor  renown  among  the  warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

"  From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
I,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin, 
Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 
How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 
You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 
Rise,  0  youth,  and  wrestle  with  me  !  " 

Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha 
Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 
From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin, 

!  At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 

'  Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigor 

;  Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset. 
And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled, 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha  ; 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation. 
Gave  a  scream  of  pain  and  famine. 

4 '  'Tis  enough  ! ''  then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 

,  ' '  But  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  sets, 
I  will  come  again  to  try  you." 
And  he  vanished,  and  was  seen  not ; 

;  Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks, 

'  Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 
Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 
Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 
Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 

i  With  the  misty  lake  below  him, 
And  the  reeling  stars  above  him. 

On  the  morrow  ana  the  next  day, 
WThen  the  sun  through  heaven  descending 

:  Like  a  red  and  burning  cinder 

•  From  the  h*earth  of  the  Great  Spirit 

i  Fell  into  the  western  waters, 


124 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 
For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha  ; 
Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 
From  the  empty  air  appearing, 
Into  empty  air  returning, 
Taking  shape  when  earth  it  touches, 
But  invisible  to  all  men; 
In  its  coming  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 
And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there, 
In  his  garments  green  and  yellow  ; 
To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 

And  he  cried,  ' '  O  Hiawatha  ! 
Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  see  us, 
He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph  !  " 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said:    "  To-morrow 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 
You  will  conquer  and  o'ercome  me ; 
Make  a  bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 
Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 
Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me ; 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 
Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 
Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

"Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 
Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me, 
Let  not  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
Come,  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 
Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 
Till  I  wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 
Till  I  leap  into  the  sunshine." 

And  thus  saying,  he  departed ; 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha, 
But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa, 
Heard  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam  ; 
Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 
Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest ; 
Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches, 
As  they  lifted  and  subsided 
At  the  passing  of  the  night-wind, 
Heard  them,  as  one  hears  in  slumber 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers  : 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 
On  the  seventh  day  of  his  fasting, 
Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 
Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 
Lest  this  hunger  should  o'ercome  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not, 
Only  said  to  her,  "Nokomis, 
Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 
Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes, 
Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended.  '* 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 
Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 
He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting 
For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 
Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward, 
Lengthened  over  lield  and  forest,       * 
Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 


As  a  red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water, 
Falls  and  sinks  into  its  bosom. 

And  behold  !  the  young  Mondamin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining  tresses, 
With  his  garments  green  and  yellow, 
With  his  long  and  glossy  plumage. 
Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  doorway. 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 
Pale  and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 
From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together, 
And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him, 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles 
In  a  net  to  break  its  meshes. 
Like  a  ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  the  red  horizon, 
And  a  hundred  suns  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 
Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 
Palpitating  with  the  struggle ; 
And  before  him  breathless,  lifeless, 
Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled, 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered, 
Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  cohimanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him, 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him ; 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  the  melancholy  moorlands, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  cry  of  pain  and  anguish ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 
And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Were  accomplished  and  completed., 
But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondamin  ; 
Nor  forgotten  nor  neglected 
Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondamin, 
Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  sunshine, 
Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 
Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  did  Hiawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it ; 
Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 
Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  scoffs  and  shoutings, 
Kahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens. 

Till  at  length  a  small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 
And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 
With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 
And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses  ; 
And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  "  It  is  Mondamin  ! 
Yes,  th'e  friend  of  man,  Mondamin !  " 

Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  growing, 
Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 
Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 
Of  this  new  gift  to  the  nations, 
Which  should  be  their  food  forever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long,  green  leaves  to  yellow, 
And  the  soft  and  juicy  kernels 
Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 
Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped  the  withered  husks  from  off  them, 
As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 
Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondamin, 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


125 


And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

VI. 

HIAWATHA'S  FUIEXDS. 

Two  good  friends  had  Hiawatha, 

Singled  out  from  all  the  others, 

Bound  to  him  in  closest  union, 

And  to  whom  he  gave  the  right  hand 

Of  his  heart,  in  joy  and  sorrow ; 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

Straight  between  them  ran  the  pathway, 
Never  grew  the  grass  upon  it ; 
Singing  birds,  that  utter  falsehoods, 
fecory-tellers,  mischief-makers, 
Found  no  eager  ear  to  listen, 
Could  not  breed  ill-will  between  them 
For  they  kept  each  other's  counsel, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

Most  beloved  by  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers. 
Beautiful  and  childlike  was  he, 
Brave  as  man  is,  soft  as  woman, 
Pliant  as  a  wand  of  willow, 
Stately  as  a  deer  with  antlers. 

When  he  sang  the  village  listened  ; 
All  the  warriors  gathered  round  him, 
All  the  women  came  to  hear  him  ; 
Now  he  stirred  their  souls  to  passion, 
Now  he  melted  them  to  pity. 

From  the  hollow  reeds  he  fashioned 
Flutes  so  musical  and  mellow, 
That  the  brook,  th'^  Sebowisha, 
Ceased  to  murmur  in  the  woodland, 
That  the  woodbirds  ceased  from  singing, 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Ceased  his  chatter  in  the  oak-tree, 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Sat  upright  to  look  and  listen. 

Yes,  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Pausing,  said,  "O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  my  waves  to  flow  in  music, 
Softly  as  your  words  in  singing  !  " 

Yes,  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
Envious,  said,  "  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  wild  and  wayward, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  frenzy  !  " 

Yes,  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Joyous,  said,  ' '  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  sweet  and  tender, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  gladness  !  " 

And  the  whippoorwill ,  Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing,  said,  "  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  melancholy, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  sadness  ! " 

All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  sweetness  from  his  singing ; 
All  the  hearts  of  men  were  softened 
By  the  pathos  of  his  music  ; 
For  he  sang  of  peace  and  freedom, 
Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing  ; 
Sang  of  death,  and  life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
In  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

Very  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ; 
For  his  gentleness  he  loved  him, 
And  the  magic  of  his  singing. 

Dear,  too,  unto  Hiawatha 
Was  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
He  the  strongest  of  all  mortals, 


He  the  mightiest  among  many  ; 
For  his  very  strength  he  loved  him, 
For  his  strength  allied  to  goodness. 

Idle  in  his  youth  was  Kwasind, 
Very  listless,  dull,  and  dreamy, 
Never  played  with  other  children, 
Never  fished  and  never  hunted, 
Not  like  other  children  was  he  ; 
But  they  saw  that  much  he  fasted, 
Much  his  Manito  entreated, 
Much  besought  his  Guardian  Spirit. 

"Lazy  Kwasind  !"  said  his  mother, 
"  In  my  work  you  never  help  me  ! 
In  the  Summer  you  are  roaming 
Idly  in  the  fields  and  forests ; 
In  the  Winter  you  are  cowering 
O'er  the  firebrands  in  the  wigwam  ! 
In  the  coldest  days  of  Winter 
I  must  break  the  ice  for  fishing  ; 
With  my  nets  you  never  help  me  ! 
At  the  door  my  nets  are  hanging, 
Dripping,  freezing  with  the  water  ; 
Go  and  wring  them,  Yenadizze  ! 
Go  and  dry  them  in  the  sunshine  !" 

Slowly,  from  the  ashes,  Kwasind 
Rose,  but  made  no  angry  answer  ; 
From  the  lodge  went  forth  in  silence, 
Took  the  nets,  that  hung  together, 
Dripping,  freezing  at  the  doorway, 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  wrung  them, 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  broke  them, 
Could  not  wring  them  without  breaking, 
Such  the  strength  was  in  his  fingers. 

"  Lazy  Kwasind  !  "  said  his  father, 
"  In  the  hut  you  never  help  me  ; 
Every  bow  you  touch  is  broken, 
Snapped  asunder  every  arrow  ; 
Yet  come  with  me  to  the  forest, 
You  shall  bring  the  hunting  homeward." 

Down  a  narrow  pass  they  wandered, 
Where  a  brooklet  led  them  onward, 
Where  the  trail  of  deer  and  bison 
Marked  the  soft  mud  on  the  margin, 
Till  they  found  all  further  passage 
Shut  against  them,  barred  securely 
By  the  trunks  of  trees  uprooted, 
Lying  lengthwise,  lying  crosswise, 
And  forbidding  further  passage. 

"We  must  go  back,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  O'er  these  logs  we  cannot  clamber ; 
Not  a  woodchuck  could  get  through  theai, 
Not  a  squirrel  clamber  o'er  them  !  " 
And  straightway  his  pipe  he  lighted, 
And  sat  down  to  smoke  and  ponder. 
But  before  his  pipe  was  finished, 
Lo  !  the  path  was  cleared  before  him ; 
All  the  trunks  had  Kwasind  lifted, 
To  the  right  hand,  to  the  left  hand, 
Shot  the  pine-trees  swift  as  arrows, 
Hurled  the  cedars  light  as  lances. 

u  Lazy  Kwasind  !  "  said  the  young  men, 
As  they  sported  in  the  meadow  : 
"  Why  stand  idly  looking  at  us, 
Leaning  on  the  rock  behind  you  ? 
Come  and  wrestle  with  the  others, 
Let  us  pitch  the  quoit  together  !  " 

Lazy  Kwasind  made  no  answer, 
To  their  challenge  made  no  answer, 
Only  rose,  and  slowly  turning, 
Seized  the  huge  rock  in  his  fingers, 
Tore  it  from  its  deep  foundation, 
Poised  it  in  the  air  a  moment. 
Pitched  it  sheer  into  the  river, 
Sheer  into  the  swift  Pauwating, 
Where  it  still  is  seen  in  Summer. 

Once  as  down  that  foaming  river, 
Down  the  rapids  of  Pauwating, 
Kwasind  sailed  with  his  companions, 
In  the  stream  he  saw  a  beaver, 
Saw  Aliment,  the  King  of  Beavers, 
Struggling  with  the  rushing  currents, 


126 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Rising,  sinking  in  the  water. 

Without  speaking,  without  pausing, 
Kwasind  leaped  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  bubbling  surface, 
Through  the  whirlpools  chased  the  beaver, 
Followed  him  among  the  islands, 
Stayed  so  long  beneath  the  water, 
That  his  terrified  companions 
Cried,  "  Alas  !  good- by  to  Kwasind  ! 
We  shall  never  more  see  Kwasind  !  " 
But  he  reappeared  triumphant, 
And  upon  his  shining  shoulders 
Brought  the  beaver,  dead  and  dripping, 
Brought  the  King  of  all  the  Beavers. 

And  these  two,  as  I  have  told  you, 
Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Long  they  lived  in  peace  together, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

VII. 

HIAWATHA'S  SAILING. 

"Give  me  of  your  bark,  O  Birch-Tree  ! 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O  Birch-Tree  ! 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 
Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley  ! 
I  a  light  canoe  will  build  me, 
Build  a  swift  Cheemaun  for  sailing, 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily  ! 

"  Lay  aside  your  cloak,  O  Birch-Tree  ! 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper, 
For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 
And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 
And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper  !  " 

Thus  aloud   cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
When  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing, 
And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking, 
Started  up  and  said,  "  Behold  me  ! 
Geezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  !  " 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Rustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning, 
Saying,  with  a  sigh  of  patience, 
"Take  my  cloak,  O  Hiawatha  !" 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled  ; 
Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches, 
Just  above  the  roots,  he  cut  it, 
Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward  ; 
Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 
Sheer  he  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 
With  a  wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 
Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 

"  Give  me  of  your  boughs,  O  Cedar  ! 
Of  your  strong  and  pliant  branches, 
My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 
Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  !  " 

Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a  sound,  a  cry  of  horror, 
Went  a  murmur  of  resistance  ; 
But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 
u  Take  my  boughs,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

Down  he  hewed  the  boughs  of  cedar, 
Shaped  them  straightway  to  a  framework, 
Like  two  bows  he  formed  and  shaped  them, 
Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

"  Give  me  of  your  roots,  O  Tamarack ! 
Of  your  fibrous  roots,  O  Larch-Tree  ! 
My  canoe  to  bind  together, 
So  to  bind  the  ends  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  !  " 


And  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres, 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 
Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 
"  Take  them  all,  O  Hiawatha  !  ' 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 
Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch-Tree, 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 
Bound  it  closely  to  the  framework. 

"  Give  me  of  your  balm,  O  Fir-Tree ! 
Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin, 
So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter. 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me !  " 

And  the  Fir-Tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Rattled  like  a  shore  with  pebbles, 
Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 
"  Take  my  balm,  O  Hiawatha!  " 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam, 
Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir-Tree, 
Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Made  each  crevice  safe  from  water. 

"  Give-me  of  your  quills,  O  Hedgehog  ! 
All  your  quills,  O  Kagh,  the  Hedgehog  ! 
I  will  make  a  necklace  of  them, 
Make  a  girdle  for  my  beauty, 
And  two  stars  to  deck  her  brsom  !  " 
From  a  hollow  tree  the  Hedgehog 
With  his  sleepy  eyes  looked  at  him, 
Shot  his  shining  quills,  like  arrows, 
Saying,  with  a  drowsy  murmur, 
Through  the  tangle  of  his  whiskers, 
"  Take  my  quills,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

From  the  ground  the  quills  he  gathered, 
All  the  little  shining  arrows, 
Stained  them  red  and  blue  and  yellow, 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  berries  ; 
Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them, 
Round  its  waist  a  shining  girdle, 
Round  its  bows  a  gleaming  necklace, 
On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch  Canoe  was  builded  ^ 

In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  forest ; 
And  the  forest's  life  was  in  it, 
All  its  mystery  and  its  magic, 
All  the  lightness  of  the  birch-tree, 
All  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 
All  the  larch's  supple  sinews  ; 
And  it  floated  on  the  river 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily. 

Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 
Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 
For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  him, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him ; 
Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided, 
Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 
To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Saying,  "  Help  me  clear  this  river 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars." 
Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 
Dived  as  if  he  were  a  beaver, 
Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water, 
To  his  arm-pits  in  the  river, 
Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 
Tugged  at  sunken  logs  and  branches, 
With  his  hands  he  scooped  the  sand-bars, 
With  his  feet  the  ooze  and  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Down  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
Sailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Swam  the  deeps,  the  shallows  waded. 
Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 
In  and  out  among  its  islands, 
Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


127 


Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel, 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain. 
Made  a  pathway  for  the  people, 
From  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 
To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 
To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw. 

vm 

HIAWATHA'S  FISHING. 

FORTH  upon  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
On  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 
Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar, 
Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon  Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 


In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  grasses. 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Lay  the  monster  Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay  the  sturgeon.  King  of  Fishes  ; 
Through  his  gills  he  breathed  the  water, 
1  With  his  fins  he  fanned  and  winnowed, 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  sand-floor. 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armor  ; 
On  each  side  a  shield  to  guard  him, 
Plates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 
Down  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting  ! 
Painted  was  he  with  his  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure. 
Spots  of  brown  and  spots  of  sable  ; 
And  he  lay  there  on  the  bottom, 
Fanning  with  his  fins  of  purple, 


That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise. 


In  his  birch  canoe  exulting 
All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 
He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming 
Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him  ; 
See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
See  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish, 
Like  a  spider  on  the  bottom, 
On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 

At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar ; 
In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  hemlock  branches ; 
On  the  bows,  with  tail  erected, 
Sat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo  ; 


As  above  him  Hiawatha 

In  his  birch  canoe  came  sailing, 

With  his  fishing  line  of  cedar. 

"  Take  my  bait,"  cried  Hiawatha, 
Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him, 
' l  Take  my  bait,  O  Sturgeon,  Nahma ! 
Come  up  from  below  the  water, 
Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger !  " 
And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 
Through  the  clear,  transparent  water, 
Waited  vainly  for  an  answer. 
Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 
And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 
"  Take  my  bait,  O  King  of  Fishes  ! " 

Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon.  Nahma, 
Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 


128 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  call  and  clamor, 
His  unnecessary  tumult, 
Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting  ; 
And  he  said  to  the  Kenozha, 
To  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
"  Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  ! " 

In  his  fingers  Hiawatha 
Felt  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten 
As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 
That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise, 
Like  a  bixch  log  in  the  water, 
With  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him, 
And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 
u  Esa !  esa !  shame  upon  you  ! 
You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozha, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  !  " 

Reeling  downward  to  the  bottom 
Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 
And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
To  the  bream,  with  scales  of  crimson, 
"  Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  !  " 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Rose  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha, 
Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 
Made  a  whirlpool  in  the  water, 
Whirled  the  birch  canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 
Till  the  circles  in  the  water 
Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 
Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 

But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 
Slowly  rising  through  the  water, 
Lifting  up  his  disk  refulgent, 
Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 
"  Esa !  esa  !  shame  upon  you ! 
You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  !  " 

Slowly  downward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Sank  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Heard  the  shout  of  Hiawatha, 
Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance, 
The  unnecessary  tumult, 
Ringing  far  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Up  he  rose  with  angry  gesture, 
Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armor, 
Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint ; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 
Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine, 
Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 

Down  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 
As  a  log  on  some  black  river 
Shoots  and  plunges  down  the  rapids, 
Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 
Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder, 
Till  he  felt  a  great  heart  beating, 
Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness. 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 
With  his  fist,  the  heart  of  Nahma, 
Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 
Shudder  through  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him 
As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 


Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 
Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nahma, 
In  the  turmoil  and  confusion. 
Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Frisked  and  chattered  very  gayly, 
Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha 
Till  the  labor  was  completed. 
Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 
"  O  my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 
Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me  ; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha, 
And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you  ; 
For  hereafter  and  forever 
Boys  shall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air  the  boys  shall  call  you  !  " 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Gasped  and  quivered  in  the  water, 
Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  pebbles, 
Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 
Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin, 
Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 
Knew  that  Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 
Lay  there  dead  upon,  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a  clang  and  flapping, 
i  As  of  many  wings  assembling, 
j  Heard  a  screaming  and  confusion, 
i  As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 
j  Saw  a  gleam  of  light  above  him, 
:  Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 
j  Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls, 
I  Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 
|  Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening, 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 
"  'T  is  our  brother,  Hiawatha!  " 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them, 
Cried  exulting  from  the  cavern : 
"  O  ye  sea-gulls  !  O  my  brothers ! 
I  have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nahma  ; 
Make  the  rifts  a  little  larger, 
With  your  claws  the  openings  widen, 
Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 
And  henceforward  and  forever 
Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 
Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 
Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  Noble  Scratchers  !  " 
And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea-gulls 
Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 
Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 
In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nahma, 
And  from  peril  and  from  prison, 
From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
From  the  peril  of  the  water, 
They  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam, 
On  the  margin  of  the  water, 
And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 
Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 
With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him. 
"  I  have  slain  the  Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain  the  King  of  Fishes  !  "  said  he  ; 
"  Look  !  the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 
Yes,  my  friends  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls  ; 
Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis, 
They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended, 
Till  their  craws  are  full  with  feasting, 
Till  they  homeward  fly,  at  sunset, 
To  their  nests  among  the  marshes  ; 
Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 
And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter." 

And  she  waited  till  the  sun  set, 
Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  Night-sun, 
Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 
Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 
From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamor. 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


129 


And  across  the  fiery  sunset 
Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands,  y 
To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 

To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 
And  Nokomis  to  her  labor, 
Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 
Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places, 
Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 
And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls, 
Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate 
Old  Nokomis  and  the  sea-gulls 
Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 
Till  the  waves  washed  through  the  rib-bones, 
Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 
And  upon  the  sands  lay  nothing 
But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


IX. 

HIAWATHA   AND   THE    PEARL-FEATHER. 

ON  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Of  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
O'er  the  water  pointing  westward, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset. 

Fiercely  the  red  sun  descending 
Burned  his  way  along  the  heavens, 
Set  the  sky  on  fire  behind  him, 
As  war-parties,  when  retreating. 
Burn  the  prairies  on  their  war-trail ; 
And  the  moon,  the    Night-sun,  eastward, 
Suddenly  starting  from  his  ambush, 
Followed  fast  those  bloody  footprints, 
Followed  in  that  fiery  war-trail, 
With  its  glare  upon  his  features. 

And  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
Spake  these  words  to  Hiawatha  : 
"Yonder  dwells  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon,  the  Magician, 
Manito'of  Wealth  and  Wampum, 
Guarded  by  his  fiery  serpents, 
Guarded  by  the  black  pitch-water. 
You  can  see  his  fiery  serpents. 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Coiling,  playing  in  the  water ; 
You  can  see  the  black  pitch-water 
Stretching  far  away  beyond  them, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset ! 
''He  it  was  who  slew  my  father, 
By  his  wicked  wiles  and  cunning, 
When  he  from  the  moon  descended, 
When  he  came  on  earth  to  seek  me. 
He,  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Sends  the  fever  from  the  marshes, 
Sends  the  pestilential  vapors, 
Sends  the  poisonous  exhalations, 
Sends  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sends  disease  and  death  among  us  ! 

' '  Take  your  bow,  O  Hiawatha, 
Take  your  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Take  your  war-club,  Puggawaugun, 
And  your  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
And  your  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 
And  the  oil  of  Mishe-Nahma. 
So  to  smear  its  sides,  that  swiftly 
You  may  pass  the  black  pitch-water  ; 
Slay  this  merciless  magician. 
Save  the  people  from  the  fever 
That  he  breathes  across  the  fen-lands, 
And  avenge  my  father's  murder  !  " 

Straightway  then  my  Hiawatha 
Armed  himself  with  all  his  war-gear, 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing  ; 
With  his  palm  its  sides  he  patted, 
Said  with  glee,  "  Cheemaun,  mv  darling, 
9 


O  my  Birch-Canoe  !  leap  forward, 
Where  you  see  the  fiery  serpents, 
Where  you  see  the  black  pitch-water  ! " 

Forward  leaped  Cheemaun  exulting, 
And  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Sang  his  war-song  wild  and  woful, 
And  above  him  the  war-eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Master  of  all  fowl  with  feathers, 
Screamed  and  hurtled  through  the  heavens. 

Soon  he  reached  the  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Lying  huge  upon  the  water. 
Sparkling,  rippling  in  the  water, 
Lying  coiled  across  the  passage. 
With  their  blazing  crests  uplifted, 
Breathing  fiery  fogs  and  vapors, 
So  that  none  could  pass  beyond  them. 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  and  spake  in  this  wise  : 
j  "  Let  me  pass  my  way,  Kenabeek, 

Let  me  go  upon  my  journey  !  " 
;  And  they  answered,  hissing  fiercely, 
With  their  fiery  breath  made  answer  : 
"Back,  go  back!  O  Shaugodaya ! 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart  !  " 

Then  the  angry  Hiawatha 
Raised  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
Seized  his  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents  ; 
Every  twanging  of  the  bow-string 
Was  a  war-cry  and  a  death-cry, 
Every  whizzing  of  an  arrow 
Was  a  death-song  of  Kenabeek. 

Weltering  in  the  bloody  water, 
Dead  lay  all  the  fiery  serpents, 
And  among  them  Hiawatha 
Harmless  sailed,  and  cried  exulting  : 
"  Onward,  O  Cheemaun,  my  darling  ! 
Onward  to  the  black  pitch-water  !  " 

Then  he  took  the  oil  of  Nahma, 
And  the  bows  and  sides  anointed, 
Smeared  them  well  with  oil,  that  swiftly 
He  might  pass  the  black  pitch-water. 

All  night  long  he  sailed  upon  it, 
Sailed  upon  that  sluggish  water, 
Covered  with  its  mould  of  ages, 
Black  with  rotten  water-rushes, 
!  Rank  with  flags  and  leaves  of  lilies, 
'  Stagnant,  lifeless,  dreary,  dismal, 
Lighted  by  the  shimmering  moonlight, 
And  by  will-o'-the-wisps  illumined. 
Fires  by  ghosts  of  dead  men  kindled, 
In  their  weary  night-encampments. 

All  the  air  was  white  with  moonlight, 
All  the  water  black  with  shadow, 
And  around  him  the  Suggema, 
The  mosquito,  sang  his  war-song, 
And  the  fire-flies,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved  their  torches  to  mislead  him  ; 
And  the  bull-frog,  the  Dahinda, 
Thrust  his  head  into  the  moonlight, 
Fixed  his  yellow  eyes  upon  him, 
Sobbed  and  sank  beneath  the  surface  ; 
And  anon  a  thousand  whistles, 
Answered  over  all  the  fen-lands, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far  off  on  the  reedy  margin, 
Heralded  the  hero's  coming. 

Westward  thus  fared  Hiawatha, 
Toward  the  realm  of  Megissogwon, 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Pearl-Feather, 
Till  the  level  moon  stared  at  him, 
In  his  face  stared  pale  and  haggard, 
Till  the  sun  was  hot  behind  him, 
Till  it  burned  upon  his  shoulders, 
And  before  him  on  the  upland 
He  could  see  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Of  the  Manito  of  Wampum, 
Of  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  once  more  Cheemaun  he  patted, 


130 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


To  his  birch-canoe  said,  "  Onward  !  " 

And  it  stirred  in  all  its  fibres, 

And  with  one  great  bound  of  triumph 

Leaped  across  the  water-lilies, 

Leaped  through  tangled  flags  and  rushes, 

And  upon  the  beach  beyond  them 

Dry-shod  landed  Hiawatha. 

Straight  he  took  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 
On  the  sand  one  end  he  rested, 
With  his  knee  he  pressed  the  middle, 
Stretched  the  faithful  bow-string  tighter, 
Took  an  arrow,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  it  at  the  Shining  Wigwam, 
Sent  it  singing  as  a  herald, 
As  a  bearer  of  his  message, 
Of  his  challenge  loud  and  lofty  : 
"  Come  forth  from  your  lodge^  Pearl-Feather  ! 
Hiawatha  waits  your  coming  !  " 

Straightway  from  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Came  the  mighty  Megissogwon, 
Tall  of  stature,  broad  of  shoulder, 
Dark  and  terrible  in  aspect, 
Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  wampum, 
Armed  with  all  his  warlike  weapons, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Streaked  with  crimson,  blue,  and  yellow, 
Crested  with  great  eagle  feathers. 
Streaming  upward,  streaming  outward. 

1 '  Well  I  know  you,  Hiawatha !  " 
Cried  he  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
In  a  tone  of  loud  derision, 
"  Hasten  back,  O  Shaugodaya  ! 
Hasten  back  among  the  women, 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart ! 
I  will  slay  you  as  you  stand  there, 
As  of  old  I  slew  her  father  !  " 

But  my  Hiawatha  answered, 
Nothing  daunted,  fearing  nothing  : 
"Big  words  do  not  smite  like  war-clubs, 
Boastful  breath  is  not  a  bow-string, 
Taunts  are  not  so  sharp  as  arrows, 
Deeds  are  better  things  than  words  are, 
Actions  mightier  than  boastings  !  " 

Then  began  the  greatest  battle 
That  the  sun  had  ever  looked  on, 
That  the  war-birds  ever  witnessed. 
All  a  Summer's  day  it  lasted, 
From  the  sunrise  till  the  sunset ; 
For  the  shafts  of  Hiawatha 
Harmless  hit  the  shirt  of  wampum, 
Harmless  fell  the  blows  he  dealt  it 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Harmless  fell  the  heavy  war-club  ; 
It  could  dash  the  rocks  asunder, 
But  it  could  not  break  the  meshes 
Of  that  magic  shirt  of  wampum. 

Till  at  sunset  Hiawatha, 
Leaning  on  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 
Wounded,  weary,  and  desponding, 
With  his  mighty  war-club  broken, 
With  his  mittens  torn  and  tattered, 
And  three  useless  arrows  only, 
Paused  to  rest  beneath  a  pine-tree, 
From  whose  branches  trailed  the  mosses, 
And  whose  trunk  was  coated  over 
With  the  Dead-man's  Moccasin -leather, 
With  the  fungus  white  and  yellow. 

Suddenly  from  the  boughs  above  him 
Sang  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker  : 
"  Aim  your  arrows,  Hiawatha, 
At  the  head  of  Megissogwon, 
Strike  the  tuft  of  hair  upon  it. 
At  their  roots  the  long  black  tresses  ; 
There  alone  can  he  be  wounded  !  " 

Winged  with  feathers,  tipped  with  jasper, 
Swift  flew  Hiawatha's  arrow, 
Just  as  Megissogwon,  stooping. 
Raised  a  heavy  stone  to  throw  it. 
Full  upon  the  crown  it  struck  him, 
At  the  roots  of  his  long  tresses, 


And  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
Plunging  like  a  wounded  bison, 
Yes,  like  Pezhekee,  the  bison, 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie. 

Swifter  flew  the  second  arrow, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  other, 
Piercing  deeper  than  the  other, 
Wounding  sorer  than  the  other  ; 
And  the  knees  of  Megissogwon 
Shook  like  windy  reeds  beneath  him, 
Bent  and  trembled  like  the  rushes. 

But  the  third  and  latest  arrow 
Swiftest  flew,  and  wounded  sorest, 
And  the  mighty  Megissogwon 
Saw  the  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 
Saw  the  eyes  of  Death  glare  at  him, 
Heard  his  voice  call  in  the  darkness  ; 
At  the  feet  of  Hiawatha 
Lifeless  lay  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Lay  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  the  grateful  Hiawatha 
Called  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker, 
From  his  perch  among  the  branches 
Of  the  melancholy  pine-tree, 
And,  in  honor  of  his  service, 
Stained  with  blood  the  tuft  of  feathers 
On  the  little  head  of  Mama ; 
Even  to  this  day  he  wears  it, 
Wears  the  tuft  of  crimson  feathers, 
As  a'  symbol  of  his  service. 

Then  he  stripped  the  shirt  of  wampum 
From  the  back  of  Megissogwon, 
As  a  trophy  of  the  battle, 
As  a  signal  of  his  conquest. 
On  the  shore  he  left  the  body, 
Half  on  land  and  half  in  water, 
In  the  sand  his  feet  were  buried, 
And  his  face  was  in  the  water. 
And  above  him.  wheeled  and  clamored 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Sailing  round  in  narrower  circles, 
Hovering  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Bore  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  his  wealth  of  skins  and  wampum, 
Furs  of  bison  and  of  beaver, 
Furs  of  sable  and  of  ermine, 
Wampum  belts  and  strings  and  pouches, 
Quivers  wrought  with  beads  of  wampum, 
Filled  with  arrows,  silver-headed. 

Homeward  then  he  sailed  exulting. 
Homeward  through  the  black  pitch  -water. 
Homeward  through  the  weltering  serpents, 
With  the  trophies  of  the  battle. 
With  a  shout  and  song  of  triumph. 

On  the  shore  stood  old  Nokomis, 
On  the  shore  stood  Chibiabos, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Waiting  for  the  hero's  coming, 
Listening  to  his  song  of  triumph. 
And  the  people  of  the  village 
Welcomed  him  with  songs  and  dances, 
Made  a  joyous  feast,  and  shotted  : 
' '  Honor  be  to  Hiawatha  ! 
He  has  slain  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Slain  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Him  who  sent  the  fiery  fever, 
Sent  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sent  disease  and  death  among  us  !  " 

Ever  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  memory  of  Mama  ! 
And  in  token  of  his  friendship, 
As  a  mark  of  his  remembrance, 
He  adorned  and  decked  his  pipe-stem 
With  the  crimson  tuft  of  feathers, 
With  the  blood-red  crest  of  Mama  ! 
But  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
He  divided  with  his  people, 
Shared  it  equally  among  them. 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


131 


X. 


HIAWATHA  S   WOOING. 

"  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman, 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 
Useless  each  without  the  other  !  " 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

"  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis  ; 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  !  " 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this  :  "  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight !  " 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis  : 
"  Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling  ; 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands  !  " 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha  : 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people  !  " 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis  : 
"  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open  ! " 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha : 
"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever  !  " 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women  ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured ; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  liis  heart  outrun  his  footsteps  ; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"  Pleasant  is  the  sound  !  "  he  murmured, 
"  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  !  " 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha  ; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "Fail  not  !  " 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "  Swerve  not !  " 


Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck ; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes  ; 
Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 
And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow  ; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa  ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons. 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom  ; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  V 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  footstep, 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 
"Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  !  " 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
'  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  !  " 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened. 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter. 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 


132 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 

As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 

As  he  told  of  his  companions, 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 

And  of  happiness  and  plenty 

In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful 

"  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
''  That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women  !  " 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly. 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely  : 
"Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha  !  " 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !  " 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water  ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"  Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha  !  " 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying  : 
"  Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us ! 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger !  " 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden ; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear ; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches. 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 


With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadow,  through  the  forest ; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber  ; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers  ; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease ; 
Sang  the  bluebird  the  Owaissa, 
"Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you  !  " 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"Happy  are  you  Laughing  Water, 
Having  such  a  noble  husband  !  " 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  "  O  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha !  " 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  "O  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble  ; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water  !  " 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward  ; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight. 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


XI. 

HIAWATHA'S  WEDDING-FEAST. 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How  the  handsome  Yenadizze 
Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding ; 
How  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  sweetest  of  musicians, 
Sang  his  songs  of  love  and  longing  ; 
How  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
Told  his  tales  of  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  might  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  might  pass  more  gayly, 
And  the  guests  be  more  contented. 

Sumptuous  was  the  feast  Nokomis 
Made  at  Hiawatha's  wedding  ; 
All  the  bowls  were  made  of  bass-wood, 
White  and  polished  very  smoothly, 
All  the  spoons  of  horn  of  bison, 
Black  and  polished  very  smoothly. 

She  had  sent  through  all  the  village 
Messengers  with  wands  of  willow, 
As  a  sign  of  invitation, 
As  a  token  of  the  feasting  ; 
And  the  wedding  guests  assembled, 
Clad  in  all  their  richest  raiment, 
Robes  of  fur  and  belts  of  wampum, 
Splendid  with  their  paint  and  plumage, 
Beautiful  with  beads  and  tassels. 

First  they  ate  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
And  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
Caught  and  cooked  by  old  Nokomis  ; 
Then  on  pemican  they  feasted, 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


133 


and  buffalo  marrow, 
Haunch  of  deer  and  hump  of  bison, 
Yellow  cakes  of  the  Mondamin, 
And  the  wild  rice  of  the  river. 

But  the  gracious  Hiawatha, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis, 
Tasted  not  the  food  before  them, 
Only  waited  on  the  others, 
Only  served  their  guests  in  silence. 

And  when  all  the  guests  had  finished, 
Old  Nokomis,  brisk  and  busy, 
From  an  ample  pouch  of  otter, 
Filled  the  red-stone  pipes  for  smoking 
With  tobacco  from  the  South-land, 
Mixed  with  bark  of  the  red  willow, 
And  with  herbs  and  leaves  of  fragrance. 

Then  she  said,  ' '  O  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance  for  us  your  merry  dances, 
Dance  the  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  us, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !  " 

Then  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He  the  idle  Yenadizze, 
He  the  merry  mischief-maker, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Rose  among  the  guests  assembled. 

Skilled  was  he  in  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoes, 
In  the  play  of  quoits  and  ball-play  ; 
Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 
In  all  games  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Kuntassoo,  the  Game  of  plum-stones. 

Though  the  warriors  called  him  Faint-Heart, 
Called  him  coward,  Shaugodaya, 
Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 
Little  heeded  he  their  jesting. 
Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 
For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum  ; 
He  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings, 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine 
And  in  moccasins  of  buck-skin, 
Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 
On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan's  down, 
On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 
In  one  hand  a  fan  of  feathers, 
And  a  pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion, 
Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses, 
Smooth,  and  parted  like  a  woman's, 
Shining  bright  with  oil,  and  plaited, 
Hung  with  braids  of  scented -grasses, 
As  among  the  guests  assembled, 
To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing 
To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 
Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  began  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a  solemn  measure, 
^"ery  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 
In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine, 
Treading  softly  like  a  panther. 
Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles, 
Leaping  o'er  the  guests  assembled, 
Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 
Till  tlie  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  in  eddies  round  about  him. 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  lake,  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 
Stamped  upon  the  sand,  and  tossed  it 


Wildly  in  the  air  around  him  ; 
Till  the  wind  became  a  whirlwind. 
Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o'er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  Sand  Dunes, 
Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! 

Thus  the  merry  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced  his  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  them . 
And,  returning,  sat  down  laughing 
There  among  the  guests  assembled, 
Sat  and  fanned  himself  serenely 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers. 

Then  they  said  to  Chibiabos, 
To  the  friend  of  Hiawatha, 
To  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 
To  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
"Sing  to  us,  O  Chibiabos  ! 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !  " 

And  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
Sang  in  tones  of  deep  emotion, 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing ; 
Looking  still  at  Hiawatha, 
|  Looking  at  fair  Laughing  Water, 
Sang  he  softly,  sang  in  this  wise  : 

"  Onaway  i     Awake,  beloved  ! 
Thou  the  wild-flower  of  the  forest ! 
Thou  the  wild-bird  of  the  prairie ! 
Thou  with  eyes  so  soft  and  fawn-like  ! 

"  If  thou  only  lookest  at  me, 
I  am  happy,  I  am  happy, 
As  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  they  feel  the  dew  upon  them  ! 

' '  Sweet  thy  breath  is  as  the  fragrance 
Of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  morning, 
As  their  fragrance  is  at  evening, 
In  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling. 

"  Does  not  all  the  blood  within  me 
Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 
As  the  springs  to  meet  the  sunshine, 
j  In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  brightest  ? 

"Onaway  !  my  heart  sings  to  thee, 
Sings  with  joy  when  thou  art  near  me, 
As  the  sighing,  singing  branches 
In  the  pleasant  Moon  of  Strawberries ! 

"  When  thou  art  not  pleased,  beloved, 
j  Then  my  heart  is  sad  and  darkened, 
!  As  the  shining  river  darkens 
When  the  clouds  drop  shadows  on  it ! 

"When  thou  smilcst,  my  beloved, 
Then  my  troubled  heart  is  brightened, 
As  in  sunshine  gleam  the  ripples 
That  the  cold  wind  makes  in  rivers. 

"Smiles  the  earth,  and  smile  the  waters, 
Smile  the  cloudless  skies  above  us, 
But  I  lose  the  way  of  smiling 
When  thou  art  no  longer  near  me  ! 

"  I  myself,  myself  !    behold  me  ! 
Blood  of  my  beating  heart,  behold  me  ! 
O  awake,  awake,  beloved  ! 
Onaway  !  awake,  beloved !  " 

Thus  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  his  song  of  love  and  longing  ; 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Kokomis, 
Jealous  of  the  sweet  musician, 
Jealous  of  the  applause  they  gave  him, 
Saw  in  all  the  eyes  around  'him. 
Saw  in  all  their  looks  and  gestures, 
That  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
Longed  to  hear  his  pleasant  stories, 
His  immeasurable  falsehoods. 

Very  boastful  was  lagoo  ; 
Never  heard  he  an  adventure 
But  himself  had  met  a  greater  ; 
Never  any  deed  of  daring 
But  himself  had  done  a  bolder  ; 


134 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Never  any  marvellous  story 
But  himself  could  tell  a  stranger. 

Would  you  listen  to  his  boasting, 
Would  you  only  give  him  credence, 
No  one  ever  shot  an  arrow 
Half  so  far  and  high  as  he  had ; 
Ever  caught  so  many  fishes, 
Ever  killed  so  many  reindeer, 
Ever  trapped  so  many  beaver  ! 

None  could  run  so  fast  as  he  could, 
None  could  dive  so  deep  as  he  could, 
None  could  swim  so  far  as  he-  could  ; 
None  had  made  so  many  journeys, 
None  had  seen  so  many  wonders, 
As  this  wonderful  lagoo, 
As  this  marvellous  story-teller ! 

Thus  his  name  became  a  by-word 
And  a  jest  among  the  people  ; 
And  whene'er  a  boastful  hunter 
Praised  his  own  address  too  highly, 
Or  a  warrior,  home  returning, 
Talked  too  much  of  his  achievements, 
All  his  hearers  cried,  "lagoo! 
Here's  lagoo  come  among  us  !  " 

He  it  was  who  carved  the  cradle 
Of  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Carved  its  framework  out  of  linden, 
Bound  it  strong  with  reindeer  sinews ; 
He  it  was  who  taught  him  later 
How  to  make  his  bows  and  arrows, 
How  to  make  the  bows  of  ash-tree, 
And  the  arrows  of  the  oak-tree. 
So  among  the  guests  assembled 
At  my  Hiawatha's  wedding 
Sat  lagoo,  old  and  ugly, 
Sat  the  marvellous  story-teller. 

And  they  said,  ' '  O  good  lagoo, 
Tell  us  now  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Tell  us  of  some  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !  " 

And  lagoo  answered  straightway, 
"  You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder,  • 
You  shall  hear  the  strange  adventures 
Of  Osseo,  the  magician, 
Prom  the  Evening  Star  descended. " 


XII. 

THE   SON     OF    THE   EVENING  STAB. 

CAN  it  be  the  sun  descending 
O'er  the  level  plain  of  water  V 
Or  the  Red  Swan  floating,  flying, 
Wounded  by  the  magic  arrow, 
Staining  all  the  waves  with  crimson, 
With  the  crimson  of  its  life-blood, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  splendor, 
With  the  splendor  of  its  plumage  ? 

Yes ;  it  is  the  sun  descending, 
Sinking  down  into  the  water, 
All  the  sky  is  stained  with  purple, 
All  the  water  flushed  with  crimson  ! 
No  ;  it  is  the  Red  Swan  floating, 
Diving  down  beneath  the  water ; 
To  the  sky  its  wings  are  lifted, 
With  its  blood  the  waves  are  reddened  ! 

Over  it  the  Star  of  Evening 
Melts  and  trembles  through  the  purple, 
Hangs  suspended  in  the  twilight. 
No  ;  it  is  a  bead  of  wampum 
On  the  robes  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
As  he  passes  through  the  twilight, 
Walks  in  silence  through  the  heavens. 

This  with  joy  beheld  lagoo 
And  he  said  in  haste  :  "Behold  it ! 
See  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening! 
You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Hear  the  story  of  Osseo, 


Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  Osseo ! 

"  Once,  in  days  no  more  remembered, 
Ages  nearer  the.  beginning, 
When  the  heavens  were  closer  to  us. 
And  the  Gods  were  more  familiar, 
In  the  North-land  lived  a  hunter, 
With  ten  young  and  comely  daughters, 
Tall  and  lithe  as  wands  of  willow  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
She  the  willful  and  the  wayward, 
She  the  silent,  dreamy  maiden, 
Was  the  fairest  of  the  sisters. 

"  All  these  women  married  warriors, 
Married  brave  and  haughty  husbands ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Laughed  and  flouted  all  her  lovers, 
All  her  young  and  handsome  suitors, 
And  then  married  old  Osseo, 
Old  Osseo,  poor  and  ugly, 
Broken  with  age  and  weak  with  coughing, 
Always  coughing  like  a  squirrel. 

"  Ah,  but  beautiful  within  him 
Was  the  spirit  of  Osseo, 
From  the  Evening  Star  descended, 
Star  of  Evening,  Star  of  Woman, 
Star  of  tenderness  and  passion ! 
All  its  fire  was  in  his  bosom, 
All  its  beauty  in  his  spirit, 
All  its  mystery  in  his  being, 
All  its  splendor  in  his  language ! 

"And  her  lovers,  the  rejected, 
Handsome  men  with  belts  of  wampum, 
Handsome  men  with  paint  and  feathers, 
Pointed  at  her  in  derision, 
Followed  her  with  jest  and  laughter. 
But  she  said :   '  I  care  not  for  you, 
Care  not  for  your  belts  of  wampum, 
Care  not  for  your  paint  and  feathers, 
Care  not  for  your  jests  and  laughter : 
I  am  happy  with  Osseo  ! ' 

"  Once  to  some  great  feast  invited, 
Through  the  damp  and  dusk  of  evening 
Walked  together  the  ten  sisters, 
Walked  together  with  their  husbands ; 
Slowly  followed  old  Osseo, 
With  fair  Oweenee  beside  him  ; 
All  the  others  chatted  gayly, 
These  two  only  walked  in  silence. 

"At  the  western  sky  Osseo 
Gazed  intent,  as  if  imploring, 
Often  stopped  and  gazed  imploring 
At  the  trembling  Star  of  Evening. 
At  the  tender  Star  of  Woman ; 
And  they  heard  him  murmur  softly, 

'Ah,  showain  nemesJiin,  Nosa! 
Pity,  pity  me,  my  father ! ' 

" 'Listen ! '  said  the  eldest  sister, 
'  He  is  praying  to  his  father  ! 
What  a  pity  that  the  old  man 
Does  not  stumble  in  the  pathway, 
Does  not  break  his  neck  by  falling  ! ' 
And  they  laughed  till  all  the  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

"  On  their  pathway  through  the  woodlands 
Lay  an  oak,  by  storms  uprooted, 
Lay  the  great  trunk  of  an  oak-tree, 
Buried  half  in  leaves  and  mosses, 
Mouldering,  crumbling,  huge  and  hollow. 
And  Osseo,  when  he  saw  it, 
Gave  a  shout,  a  cry  of  anguish, 
Leaped  into  its  yawning  cavern, 
At  one  end  went  in  an  old  man, 
Wasted^  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ; 
From  the  other  came  a  young  man, 
Tall  and  straight  and  strong  and  handsome. 

"  Thus  Osseo  was  transfigured, 
Thus  restored  to  youth  and  beauty  ; 
But,  alas  for  good  Osseo, 
And  for  Oweenee,  the  faithful ! 
Strangely,  too,  was  she  transfigured. 
Changed  into  a  weak  old  woman, 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


With  a  Aaff  she  tottered  onward, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly ! 
And  the  sisters  and  their  husbands 
Laughed  until  the  echoing  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

"  But  Osseo  turned  not  from  her, 
Walked  with  slower  step  beside  her, 
Took  her  hand,  as  brown  and  withered 
As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  Winter, 
Called  her  sweetheart,  Nenemoosha, 
Soothed  her  with  soft  words  of  kindness, 
Till  they  reached  the  lodge  of  feasting, 
Till  they  sat  down  in  the  wigwam, 
Sacred  to  the  Star  of  Evening, 
To  the  tender  Star  of  Woman. 

"Wrapt  in  visions,  lost  in  dreaming, 
At  the  banquet  sat  Osseo  ; 
All  were  merry,  all  were  happy, 
All  were  joyous  but  Osseo. 
Neither  food  nor  drink  he  tasted, 
Neither  did  he  speak  nor  listen, 
But  as  one  bewildered  sat  he, 
Looking  dreamily  and  sadly, 
First  at  Oweenee,  then  upward 
At  the  gleaming  sky  above  them. 

'  "Then  a  voice  was  heard,  a  whisper, 
Coming  from  the  starry  distance, 
Coming  from  the  empty  vastness, 
Low,  and  musical,  and  tender  ; 
And  the  voice  said  :  '  O  Osseo  ! 
O  my  son,  my  best  beloved ! 
Broken  are  the  spells  that  bound  you, 
All  the  charms  of  the  magicians, 
All  the  magic  powers  of  evil; 
Come  to  me  ;  ascend,  Osseo  ! 

"  '  Taste  the  food  that  stands  before  you : 
It  is  blessed  and  enchanted, 
It  has  magic  virtues  in  it, 
It  will  change  you  to  a  spirit. 
All  your  bowls  and  all  your  kettles 
Shall  be  wood  and  clay  no  longer ; 
But  the  bowls  be  changed  to  wampum, 
And  the  kettles  shall  be  silver ; 
They  shall  shine  like  shells  of  scarlet, 
Like  the  fire  shall  gleam  and  glimmer. 

"  'And  the  women  shall  no  longer 
Bear  the  dreary  doom  of  labor, 
But  be  changed  to  birds,  and  glisten 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 
Painted  with  the  dusky  splendors 
Of  the  skies  and  clouds  of  evening  ! ' 

"  What  Osseo  heard  as  whispers, 
What  as  words  he  comprehended, 
Was  but  music  to  the  others, 
Music  as  of  birds  afar  off, 
Of  the  whippoorwill  afar  off, 
Of  the  lonely  Wawonaissa 
Singing  in  the  darksome  forest. 

"  Then  the  lodge  began  to  tremble, 
Straight  began  to  shake  and  tremble, 
And  they  felt  it  rising,  rising. 
Slowly  through  the  air  ascending, 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tree-tops 
Forth  into  the  dewy  starlight, 
Till  it  passed  the  topmost  branches  ; 
And  behold  !  the  wooden  dishes 
All  were  changed  to  shells  of  scarlet ! 
And  behold  !  the  earthen  kettles 
All  were  changed  to  bowls  of  silver  ! 
And  the  roof-poles  of  the  wigwam 
Were  as  glittering  rods  of  silver, 
And  the  roof  of  bark  upon  them 
As  the  shining  shards  of  beetles. 

"  Then  Osseo  gazed  around  him, 
And  he  saw  the  nine  fair  sisters, 
All  the  sisters  and  their  husbands, 
Changed  to  birds  of  various  plumage. 
Some  were  jays  and  some  were  magpies, 
Others  thrushes,  others  blackbirds  ; 
And  they  hopped,  and  sang,  and  twittered, 
Perked  and  fluttered  all  their  feathers. 


Strutted  in  their  shining  plumage, 
And  their  tails  like  fans  unfolded. 

''  Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Was  not  changed,  but  sat  in  silence, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly, 
Looking  sadly  at  the  others ; 
Till  Osseo,  gazing  upward, 
Gave  another  cry  of  anguish, 
Such  a  cry  as  he  had  uttered 
By  the  oak-tree  in  the  forest. 

"Then  returned  her  youth  and  beauty, 
And  her  soiled  and  tattered  garments 
Were  transformed  to  robes  of  ermine, 
And  her  staff  became  a  feather, 
Yes,  a  shining  silver  feather  ! 

"  And  again  the  wigwam  trembled, 
Swayed  and  rushed  through  airy  currents, 
Through  transparent  cloud  and  vapor, 
And  amid  celestial  splendors 
On  the  Evening  Star  alighted, 
As  a  snow-flake  falls  on  snow-flake, 
As  a  leaf  drops  on  a  river, 
As  the  thistle-down  on  water. 

"  Forth  with  cheerful  words  of  welcome 
Came  the  father  of  Osseo, 
He  with  radiant  locks  of  silver, 
He  with  eyes  serene  and  tender. 
And  he  said  :  '  My  son,  Osseo, 
Hang  the  cage  of  birds  you  bring  there, 
Hang  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 
And  the  birds  with  glistening  feathers, 
At  the  doorway  of  my  wigwam.' 

' '  At  the  door  he  hung  the  bird-cage, 
And  they  entered  in,  and  gladly 
Listened  to  Osseo's  father, 
Ruler  of  the  Star  of  Evening, 
As  he  said  :  '  O  my  Osseo  ! 
I  have  had  compassion  on  you, 
Given  you  back  your  youth  and  beauty, 
Into  birds  of  various  plumage 
Changed  your  sisters  and  their  husbands  ; 
Changed  them  thus  because  they  mocked  you 
lu  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 
In  that  aspect  sad  and  wrinkled, 
Could  not  see  your  heart  of  passion, 
Could  not  see  your  youth  immortal ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Saw  your  naked  heart  and  loved  you. 

'"In  the  lodge  that  glimmers  yonder, 
In  the  little  star  that  twinkles 
Through  the  vapors,  on  the  left  hand, 
Lives  the  envious  Evil  Spirit, 
The  Wabeno,  the  magician, 
Who  transformed  you  to  an  old  man. 
Take  heed  lest  his  beams  fall  on  you, 
For  the  rays  he  darts  around  him 
Are  the  power  of  his  enchantment, 
Are  the  arrows  that  he  uses. ' 

"  Many  years,  in  peace  and  quiet, 
On  the  peaceful  Star  of  Evening 
Dwelt  Osseo  with  his  father  ; 
Many  years,  in  song  and  flutter, 
At  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
Hung  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 
And  fair  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Bore  a  son  unto  Osseo, 
With  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
With  the  courage  of  his  father. 

"  And  the  boy  grew  up  and  prospered, 
And  Osseo,  to  delight  him. 
Made  him  little  bows  and  arrows, 
Opened  the  great  cage  of  silver, 
And  let  loose  his  aunts  and  uncles, 
All  those  birds  with  glossy  feathers, 
For  his  little  son  to  shoot  at. 

' '  Round  and  round  they  wheeled  and  darted, 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  w'ith  music, 
With  their  songs  of  joy  and  freedom  ; 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  splendor, 
With  the  fluttering  of  their  plumage  ; 
Till  the  boy,  the  little  hunter, 


136 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Bent  his  bow  and  shot  an  arrow, 
Shot  a  swift  and  fatal  arrow, 
And  a  bird,  with  shining  feathers, 
At  his  feet  fell  wounded  sorely. 

"  But,  O  wondrous  transformation  ! 
'T  was  no  bird  he  saw  before  him, 
'T  was  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
With  the  arrow  in  her  bosom  ! 

"  When  her  blood  fell  on  the  planet, 
On  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening, 
Broken  was  the  spell  of  magic, 
Powerless  was  the  strange  enchantment, 
And  the  youth,  the  fearless  bowman, 
Suddenly  felt  himself  descending, 
Held  by  unseen  hands,  but  sinking 
Downward  through  the  empty  spaces, 
Downward  through  the  clouds  and  vapors, 
Till  he  rested  on  an  island, 
On  an  island,  green  and  grassy, 
Yonder  in  the  Big-Sea-Water. 

"  After  him  he  saw  descending 
All  the  birds  with  shining  feathers, 
Fluttering,  falling,  wafted  downward, 
Like  the  painted  leaves  of  Autumn  ; 
And  the  lodge  with  poles  of  silver, 
With  its  roof  like  wings  of  beetles, 
Like  the  shining  shards  of  beetles, 
By  the  winds  of  heaven  uplifted, 
Slowly  sank  upon  the  island.  . 

Bringing  back  the  good  Osseo, 
Bringing  Oweenee,  the  faithful. 

"  Then  the  birds,  again  transfigured, 
Reassumed  the  shape  of  mortals, 
Took  their  shape,  but  not  their  stature  ; 
They  remained  as  Little  People, 
Like  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 
And  on  pleasant  nights  of  Summer, 
When  the  Evening  Star  was  shining, 
Hand  in  hand  they  danced  together 
On  the  island's  craggy  headlands, 
On  the  sand-beach  low  and  level 

"  Still  their  glittering  lodge  is  seen  there, 
On  the  tranquil  Summer  evenings, 
And  upon  the  shore  the  fisher 
Sometimes  hears  their  happy  voices, 
Sees  them  dancing  in  the  starlight !  '' 

When  the  story  was  completed, 
When  the  wondrous  tale  was  ended, 
Looking  round  upon  his  listeners, 
Solemnly  lagoo  added  : 
"  There  are  great  men,  I  have  known  such, 
Whom  their  people  understand  not,' 
Whom  they  even  make  a  jest  of, 
Scoff  and  jeer  at  in  derision. 
From  the  story  of  Osseo 
Let  us  learn  the  fate  of  jesters  !  " 

All  the  wedding  guests  delighted 
Listened  to  the  marvellous  story, 
Listened  laughing  and  applauding, 
And  they  whispered  to  each  other  : 
"  Does  he  mean  himself,  I  wonder  ? 
And  are  we  the  aunts  and  uncles  ?  " 

Then  again  sang  Chibiabos, 
Sang  a  song  of  love  and  longing, 
In  those  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
In  those  tones  of  pensive  sadness, 
Sang  a  maiden's  lamentation 
For  her  lover,  her  Algonquin. 

"  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  Ah  me  !  when  I  parted  from  him, 
Round  my  neck  he  hung  the  wampum, 
As  a  pledge,  the  snow-white  wampum, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"I  will  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
Ah  me  !  to  your  native  country  ; 
Let  me  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 
"  Far  away,  away,  I  answered, 


Very  far  away,  I  answered, 

Ah  me  !  is  my  native  country, 

O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

' '  When  I  looked  back  to  behold  him, 
Where  we  parted,  to  behold  him, 
After  me  he  still  was  gazing, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

1 '  By  the  tree  he  still  was  standing, 
By  the  falling  tree  was  standing, 
That  had  dropped  into  the  water, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  !  " 

Such  was  Hiawatha's  wedding, 
Such  the  dance  of  Pau  -Puk-Keewis, 
Such  the  story  of  lagoo, 
Such  the  songs  of  Chibiabos  ; 
Thus  the  wedding  banquet  ended, 
And  the  wedding  guests  departed, 
Leaving  Hiawatha  happy 
With  the  night  and  Minnehaha. 

xm. 

BLESSING   THE  COKNFIELDS. 

SING,  O  Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Of  the  happy  days  that  followed, 

In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful ! 

Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin, 

Sing  the  Blessing  of  the  Cornfields ! 

Buried  was  the  bloody  hatchet, 
Buried  was  the  dreadful  war-club, 
Buried  were  all  war-like  weapons, 
And  the  war-cry  was  forgotten. 
There  was  peace  among  the  nations  ; 
Unmolested  roved  the  hunters, 
Built  the  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
Caught  the  fish  in  lake  and  river, 
Shot  the  deer  and  trapped  the  beaver; 
Unmolested  worked  the  women, 
Made  their  sugar  from  the  maple, 
Gathered  wild  rice  in  the  meadows, 
Dressed  the  skins  of  deer  and  beaver. 

All  around  the  happy  village 
Stood  the  maize-fields,  green  and  shining, 
Waved  the  green  plumes  of  Mondamin, 
Waved  his  soft  and  sunny  tresses, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  plenty. 
'T  was  the  women  who  in  Spring-time 
Planted  the  broad  fields  and  fruitful, 
Buried  in  the  earth  Mondamin; 
'T  was  the  women  who  in  Autumn 
Stripped  the  yellow  husks  of  harvest, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Even  as  Hiawatha  taught  them. 

Once,  when  all  the  maize  was  planted, 
Hiawatha,  wise  and  thoughtful, 
Spake  and  said  to  Minnehaha, 
To  his  wife  the  Laughing  Water  : 
"You  shall  bless  to-night  the  cornfields, 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
To  protect  them  from  destruction, 
Blast  of  mildew,  blight  of  insect, 
Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields, 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear  ! 

"  In  the  night,  when  all  is  silence, 
In  the  night,  when  all  is  darkness, 
When  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Shuts  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
So  that  not  an  ear  can  hear  you, 
So  that  not  an  eye  can  see  you, 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  in  silence, 
Lay  aside  your  garments  wholly, 
Walk  around  the  fields  you  planted, 
Round  the  borders  of  the  cornfields, 
Covered  by  your  tresses  only, 
Robed  with  darkness  as  a  garment. 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


137 


"Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruitful, 
And  the  passing  of  your  footsteps 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
So  that  neither  blight  nor  mildew, 
Neither  burrowing  worm  nor  insect, 
Shall  pass  o'er  the  magic  circle  ; 
Not  the  dragon-fly,  Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor  the  spider,  Subbekashe, 
Nor  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena, 
Nor  the  mighty  caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana,  with  the  bear-skin, 
King  of  all  the  caterpillars  !  " 

On  the  tree-tops  near  the  cornfields 
Sat  the  hungry  crows  and  ravens, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
With  his  band  of  black  marauders. 
And  they  laughed  at  Hiawatha, 
Till  the  tree-tops  shook  with  laughter, 
With  their  melancholy  laughter, 
At  the  words  of  Hiawatha. 
"  Hear  him  !  "  said  they ;  "  hear  the  Wise  Man, 
Hear  the  plots  of  Hiawatha  !  " 

When  the  noiseless  night  descended 
Broad  and  dark  o'er  field  and  forest, 
When  the  mournful  Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing  sang  among  the  hemlocks, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Xepahwin, 
Shut  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
Prom  her  bed  rose  Laughing  Water, 
Laid  aside  her  garments  wholly, 
And  with  darkness  clothed  and  guarded, 
Unashamed  and  unaftrighted, 
Walked  securely  round  the  cornfields, 
Drew  the  sacred,  magic  circle 
Of  her  footprints  round  the  cornfields. 

No  one  but  the  Midnight  only 
Saw  her  beauty  in  the  darkness, 
No  one  but  the  Wawonaissa 
Heard  the  panting  of  her  bosom  ; 
Guskewau,  the  darkness,  wrapped  her 
Closely  in  his  sacred  mantle, 
So  that  none  might  see  her  beauty, 
So  that  none  might  boast,  ''  I  saw  her  !  " 

On  the  morrow,  as  the  day  dawned, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Gathered  all  his  black  marauders. 
Crows  and  blackbirds,  jays  and  ravens, 
Clamorous  on  the  dusky  tree-tops, 
And  descended,  fast  and  fearless, 
On  the  fields  of  Hiawatha, 
On  the  grave  of  the  Mondamin. 

"  We  will  drag  Mondamin,"  said  they, 
"  From  the  grave  where  he  is  buried, 
Spite  of  all  the  magic  circles 
Laughing  Water  draws  around  it, 
Spite  of  all  the  sacred  footprints 
Minnehaha  stamps  upon  it !  " 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha, 
Ever  thoughtful,  careful,  watchful, 
Had  o'erheard  the  scornful  laughter, 
When  they  mocked  him  from  the  tree-tops. 
"Kaw  !  "  he  said,  "  my  friends  the  ravens  ! 
K'ahgaijgee,  my  King  of  Ravens  ! 
I  will  teach  you  all  a  lesson 
That  shall  not  be  soon  forgotten  !  " 

He  had  risen  before  the  daybreak, 
He  had  spread  o'er  all  the  cornfields 
Snares  to  catch  the  black  marauders, 
And  was  lying  now  in  ambush 
In  the  neighboring  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Waiting  for  the  crows  and  blackbirds, 
Waiting  for  the  jays  and  ravens. 

Soon  they  came  with  caw  and  clamor, 
Rush  of  wings  and  cry  of  voices, 
To  their  work  of  devastation. 
Settling  down  upon  the  cornfields. 
Delving  deep  with  beak  and  talon, 
For  the  body  of  Mondamin. 
And  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 
All  their  skill  in  wiles  of  warfare, 


They  perceived  no  danger  near  them, 

1  Till  their  claws  became  entangled, 
Till  they  found  themselves  imprisoned 
In  the  snares  of  Hiawatha. 

From  his  place  of  ambush  came  he, 
Striding  terrible  among  them, 
And  so  awful  was  his  aspect 
That  the  bravest  quailed  with  terror. 
Without  mercy  he  destroyed  them 
Right  and  left,  by  tens  and  twenties, 
And  their  wretched,  lifeless  bodies 
Hung  aloft  on  poles  for  scarecrows 
Round  the  consecrated  cornfields, 
As  a  signal  of  his  vengeance, 
As  a  warning  to  marauders. 

Only  Kahgahgee,  the  leader, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
He  alone  was  spared  among  them 
As  a  hostage  for  his  people. 
With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound  him, 
Led  him  captive  to  his  wigwam, 
Tied  him  fast  with  cords  of  elm-bark 
To  the  ridge-pole  of  his  wigwam. 

''Kahgahgee,  my  raven  ! ''  said  he, 
"  You  the  leader  of  the  robbers, 
You  the  plotter  of  this  mischief. 
The  contriver  of  this  outrage, 
I  will  keep  you,  I  will  hold  you, 
As  a  hostage  for  your  people, 
As  a  pledge  of  good  behavior  !  " 

And  he  left  him,  grim  and  sulky, 
Sitting  in  the  morning  sunshine 
On  the  summit  of  the  wigwam, 
Croaking  fiercely  his  displeasure, 
Flapping  his  great  sable  pinions. 
Vainly  struggling  for  his  freedom, 
Vainly  calling  on  his  people  ! 

Summer  passed,  and  Shawondasse 
Breathed  his  sighs  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
From  the  South-land  sent  his  ardors, 

1  Wafted  kisses  warm  and  tender  ; 

i  And  the  maize-field  grew  and  ripened, 
Till  it  stood  in  all  the  splendor 
Of  its  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Of  its  tassels  and  its  plumage, 
And  the  maize-ears  full  and  shining 
Gleamed  from  bursting  sheaths  of  verdure. 

Then  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Spuke,  and  said  to  Minnehaha  : 
"  'T  is  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling ; 
All  the  wild-rice  has  been  gathered, 
And  the  maize  is  ripe  and  ready  ; 

!  Let  us  gather  in  the  harvest, 
Let  us  wrestle  with  Mondamin, 

!  Strip  him  of  his  plumes  and  tassels, 
Of  his  garments  green  and  yellow  !  " 

And  the  merry  Laughing  Water 
Went  rejoicing  from  the  wigwam, 
With  Nokomis,  old  and  wrinkled, 
And  they  called  the  women  round  them, 
Called  the  young  men  and  the  maidens, 
To  the  harvest  of  the  cornfields, 
To  the  husking  of  the  maize-ear. 

On  the  border  of  the  forest, 
Underneath  the  fragrant  pine-trees, 
Sat  the  old  men  and  the  warriors 
Smoking  in  the  pleasant  shadow. 
In  uninterrupted  silence 
Looked  they  at  the  gamesome  labor 
Of  the  young  men  and  the  women ; 
Listened  to  their  noisy  talking, 
To  their  laughter  and  their  singing. 
Heard  them  chattering  like  the  magpies, 
Heard  them  laughing  like  the  blue-jays, 
Heard  them  singing  like  the  robins. 
And  whene'er  some  lucky  maiden 
Found  a  red  ear  in  the  husking, 
Found  a  maize-ear  red  as  blood  is, 
"Nushka  !  "  cried  they  all  together, 
"  Nushka  !  you  shall  have  a  sweetheart, 


138 


THE    SONG  OF  3IAWATHA. 


You  shall  have  a  handsome  husband  !  " 
"  Ugh  !  "  the  old  men  all  responded 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 

And  whene'er  a  youth  or  maiden 
Found  a  crooked  ear  in  husking, 
Found  a  maize-ear  in  the  husking 
Blighted,  mildewed,  or  misshapen, 
Then  they  laughed  and  sang  together, 
Crept  and  limped  about  the  cornfields, 
Mimicked  in  their  gait  and  gestures 
Some  old  man,  bent  almost  double, 
Singing  singly  or  together  : 
"  Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields  ! 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear  !  " 

Till  the  cornfields  rang  with  laughter, 
Till  from  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Screamed  and  quivered  in  his  anger, 
And  from  all  the  neighboring  tree-tops 
Cawed  and  croaked  the  black  marauders. 
"  Ugh  !  "  the  old  men  all  responded, 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees ! 


XIV. 

PICTURE-WRITING. 

IN  those  days  said  Hiawatha, 

"  Lo  !  how  all  things  fade  and  perish ! 

From  the  memory  of  the  old  men 

Pass  away  the  great  traditions, 

The  achievements  of  the  warriors, 

The  adventures  of  the  hunters, 

All  the  wisdom  of  the  Medas, 

All  the  craft  of  the  Wabenos, 

All  the  marvellous  dreams  and  visions 

Of  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets  ! 

"Great  men  die  and  are  forgotten, 
Wise  men  speak ;  their  words  of  wisdom 
Perish  in  the  ears  that  hear  them, 
Do  not  reach  the  generations 
That,  as  yet  unborn,  are  waiting 
In  the  great,  mysterious  darkness 
Of  the  speechless  days  that  shall  be  ! 

"  On  the  grave-posts  of  pur  fathers 
Are  no  signs,  no  figures  painted  ; 
Who  are  in  those  graves  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 
Of  what  kith  they  are  and  kindred, 
From  what  old,  ancestral  Totem, 
Be  it  Eagle,  Bear,  or  Beaver, 
They  descended,  this  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

"  Face  to  face  we  speak  together, 
But  we  cannot  speak  when  absent, 
Cannot  send  our  voices  from  us 
To  the  friends  that  dwell  afar  off ; 
Cannot  send  a  secret  message, 
But  the  bearer  learns  our  secret, 
May  pervert  it,  may  betray  it, 
May  reveal  it  unto  others." 

Thus  said  Hiawatha,  walking 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
Pondering,  musing  in  the  forest, 
On  the  welfare  of  his  people. 

From  his  pouch  he  took  his  colors, 
Took  his  paints  of  different  colors, 
On  the  smooth  bark  of  a  birch-tree 
Painted  many  shapes  and  figures, 
Wonderful  and  mystic  figures, 
And  each  figure  had  a  meaning. 
Each  some  word  or  thought  suggested. 

Gitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
He,  the  Master  of  Life,  was  painted 
As  an  egg,  with  points  projecting 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens. 
Everywhere  is  the  Great  Spirit, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol 

Mitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
He  the  dreadful  Spirit  of  Evil, 


As  a  serpent  was  depicted, 
As  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpent. 
Very  crafty,  very  cunning, 
Is  the  creeping  Spirit  of  Evil, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Life  and  Death  he  drew  as  circles, 
Life  was  white,  but  Death  was  darkened; 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  he  painted, 
Man  and  beast,  and  fish  and  reptile, 
Forests,  mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers. 

For  the  earth  he  drew  a  straight  line, 
For  the  sky  a  bow  above  it ; 
White  the  space  between  for  daytime, 
Filled  with  little  stars  for  night-time ; 
On  the  left  a  point  for  sunrise, 
On  the  right  a  point  for  sunset, 
On  the  top  a  point  for  noontide 
And  for  rain  and  cloudy  weather 
Waving  lines  descending  from  it. 

Footprints  pointing  towards  a  wigwam 
Were  a  sign  of  invitation, 
Were  a  sign  of  guests  assembling ; 
Bloody  hands  with  palms  uplifted 
Were  a  symbol  of  destruction, 
Were  a  hostile  sign  and  sy.mbol. 

All  these  things  did  Hiawatha 
Show  unto  his  wondering  people, 
And  interpreted  their  meaning, 
And  he  said  :   "Behold,  your  grave-posts 
Have  no  mark,  no-oign,  nor  symbol. 
Go  and  paint  them  all  -with  figures  ; 
Each  one  with  its  household  symbol, 
With  its  own  ancestral  Totem  ; 
So  that  those  who  follow  after 
May  distinguish  them  and  know  them." 

And  they  painted  on  the  grave-posts 
On  the  graves  yet  unforgqtten, 
Each  his  own  ancestral  Totem, 
Each  the  symbol  of  his  household ; 
Figures  of  the  Bear  and  Reindeer, 
Of  the  Turtle,  Crane,  and  Beaver, 
Each  inverted  as  a  token 
That  the  owner  was  departed, 
That  the  chief  who  bore  the  symbol 
Lay  beneath  in  dust  and  ashes. 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  "Prophets, 
The  Wabenos,  the  Magicians, 
And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Painted  upon  bark  and  deer-skin 
Figures  for  the  songs  they  chanted, 
For  each  song  a  separate  symbol, 
Figures  mystical  and  awful, 
Figures  strange  and  brightly  colored ; 
And  each  figure  had  its  meaning. 
Each  some  magic  song  suggested. 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Flashing  light  through  all  the  heaven  , 
The  great  Serpent,  the  Kenabeek, 
With  his  bloody  crest  erected, 
Creeping,  looking  into  heaven  ; 
In  the  sky  the  sun,  that  listens, 
And  the  moon  eclipsed  and  dying ; 
Owl  and  eagle,  crane  and  hen-hawk, 
And  the  cormorant,  bird  of  magic  ; 
Headless  men,  that  walk  the  heavens, 
Bodies  lying  pierced  with  arrows, 
Bloody  hands  of  death  uplifted, 
Flags  on  graves,  and  great  war-captains 
Grasping  both  the  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Such  as  these  the  shapes,  they  painted 
On  the  birch-bark  and  the  deer-skin ; 
Songs  of  war  and  songs  of  hunting, 
Songs  of  medicine  and  of  magic, 
AJ1  were  written  in  these  figures, 
For  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 
Each  its  separate  song  recorded. 

Nor  forgotten  was  the  Love-Song, 
The  most  subtle  of  all  medicine, 
The  most  potent  spell  of  magic, 
Dangerous  more  than  war  or  hunting  ! 
Thus  the  Love-Song  was  recorded, 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


139 


Symbol  and  inter pretatation. 

First  a  human  tigure  standing 
Painted  in  the  brightest  scarlet ; 
T  is  the  lover,  the  musician, 
And  the  meaning  is,  "My  painting 
Makes  me  powerful  over  others." 

Then  the  figure  seated,  singing, 
Playing  on  a  drum  of  magic, 
Anil  the  interpretation,  "Listen  ! 
'T  is  my  voice  you  hear,  my  singing  !  " 

Then  the  same  red  figure  seated 
In  the  shelter  of  a  wigwam, 
And  the  meaning  of  the  symbol, 
"I  will  come  and  sit  beside  you 
In  the  mystery  of  my  passion  !  " 

Then  two  figures,  man  and  woman, 
Standing  hand  in  hand  together 
With  their  hands  so  clasped  together 
That  they  seem  in  one  united, 
And  the  words  thus  represented 
Are,  "  I  see  your  heart  within  you, 
And  your  cheeks  are  red  with  blushes  !  " 

Next  the  maiden  on  an  island, 
In  the  centre  of  an  island  ; 
And  the  song  this  shape  suggested 
Was,  " '  Though  you  were  at  a  distance, 
Were  upon  some  far-off  island, 
Such  the  spell  I  cast  upon  you, 
Such  the  magic  power  of  passion, 
I  could  straightway  draw  you  to  me  !  "    . 

Then  the  ngure  of  the  maiden 


Sleeping,  and  the  lover  near  her, 
Whispering  to  her  in  her  slumbers, 
Saying,  u  Though  you  were  far  from  me 
In  the  land  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 
Still  the  voice  of  love  would  reach  you  !  '* 

And  the  last  of  all  the  figures 
Was  a  heart  within  a  circle. 
Drawn  within  a  magic  circle  ; 
And  the  image  had  this  meaning  : 
"  Naked  lies  your  heart  before  rae, 
To  your  naked  heart  I  whisper  !  " 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 
In  his  wisdom,  taught  the  people 
All  the  mysteries  of  painting, 
All  the  art  of  Picture-Writing, 
On  the  smooth  bark  of  the  birch-tree, 
On  the  white  skin  of  the  reindeer, 
On  the  grave-posts  of  the  village. 


XV. 

HIAWATHA'S  LAMENTATION 

IN  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits, 
All  the  Manitos  of  mischief, 
Fearing  Hiawatha's  wisdom, 
And  his  love  for  Chibiabos, 
Jealous  of  their  faithful  friendship. 
And  their  noble  words  and  actions. 


Broke  the  treaefrous  ice  beneath  l.iui 


140 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Made  at  length  a  league  against  them, 
To  molest  them  and  destroy  them. 

Hiawatha,  wise  and  wary, 
Often  said  to  Chibiabos, 
"  O  my  brother  !  do  not  leave  me, 
Lest  the  Evil  Spirits  harm  you  !  " 
Chibiabos,  young  and  heedless, 
Laughing  shook  his  coal-black  tresses, 
Answered  ever  sweet  and  childlike, 
"  Do  not  fear  for  me,  O  brother  ! 
Harm  and  evil  come  not  near  me  ! " 

Once  when  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Roofed  with  ice  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
When  the  snow-flakes,  whirling  downward, 
Hissed  among  the  withered  oak -leaves, 
Changed  the  pine-trees  into  wigwams, 
Covered  all  the  earth  with  silence, — 
Armed  with  arrows,  shod  with  snow-shoes, 
Heeding  not  his  brother's  warning, 
Fearing  not  the  Evil  Spirits, 
Forth  to  hunt  the  deer  with  antlers 
All  alone  went  Chibiabos. 

Bight  across  the  Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang  with  speed  the  deer  before  him. 
With  the  wind  and  snow  he  followed, 
O'er  the  treacherous  ice  he  followed, 
Wild  with  all  the  fierce  commotion 
And  the  rapture  of  the  hunting. 

But  beneath,  the  Evil  Spirits 
Lay  in  ambush,  waiting  for  him, 
Broke  the  treacherous  ice  beneath  him, 
Dragged  him  downward  to  the  bottom, 
Buried  in  the  sand  his  body. 
Unktahee,  the  god  of  water, 
He  the  god  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Drowned  him  in  the  deep  abysses 
Of  the  lake  of  Gitche  Gumee. 

From  the  headlands  Hiawatha 
Sent  forth  such  a  wail  of  anguish, 
Such  a  fearful  lamentation, 
That  the  bison  paused  to  listen, 
And  the  wolves  howled  from  the  prairies, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  distance 
Starting  answered,  "  Baim-wawa  !  " 

Then  his  face  with  black  he  painted, 
With  his  robe  his  head  he  covered, 
In  his  wigwam  sat  lamenting, 
Seven  long  weeks  he  sat  lamenting, 
Uttering  still  this  moan  of  sorrow  : — 

"  He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! 
He  has  gone  from  us  forever, 
He  has  moved  a  little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music, 
To  the  Master  of  all  singing  ! 
O  my  brother,  Chibiabos  !  " 

And  the  melancholy  fir-trees 
Waved  their  dark  green  fans  above  him, 
Waved  their  purple  cones  above  him, 
Sighing  with  him  to  console  him, 
Mingling  with  his  lamentation 
Their  complaining,  their  lamenting. 

Came  the  Spring,  and  all  the  forest 
Looked  in  vain  for  Chibiabos ; 
Sighed  the  rivulet,  Sebowisha, 
Sighed  the  rushes  in  the  meadow. 

From  the  tree-tops  sang  the  bluebird, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
u  Chibiabos  !    Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  !  " 

From  the  wigwam  sang  the  robin, 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"  Chibiabos  !    Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweetest  singer  !  " 

And  at  night  through  all  the  forest 
Went  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Wailing  went  the  Wawonaissa, 
"  Chibiabos  !    Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  !  " 

Then  the  medicine-men,  the  Medas, 


The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets, 
Came  to  visit  Hiawatha  ; 
Built  a  Sacred  Lodge  beside  him, 
To  appease  him,  to  console  him, 
Walked  in  silent,  grave  procession, 
Bearing  each  a  pouch  of  healing, 
Skin  of  beaver,  lynx,  or  otter, 
Filled  with  magic  roots  and  simples, 
'  Filled  with  very  potent  medicines. 

When  he  heard  their  steps  approaching, 
Hiawatha  ceased  lamenting, 
j  Called  no  more  on  Chibiabos  ; 
Naught  he  questioned,  naught  he  answered, 
But  his  mournful  head  uncovered, 
From  his  face  the  mourning  colors 
1  Washed  he  slowly  and  in  silence, 
Slowly  and  in  silence  followed 
Onward  to  the  Sacred  Wigwam. 

There  a  magic  drink  they  gave  him, 
Made  of  Nahma-wusk,  the  spearmint, 
And  Wabeno-wusk,  the  yarrow, 
Roots  of  power,  and  herbs  of  healing ; 
Beat  their  drums,  and  shook  their  rattles  ; 
(  Chanted  singly  and  in  chorus, 
i  Mystic  songs  like  these,  they  chanted. 

"  I  myself,  myself !  behold  me  ! 
'T  is  the  great  Gray  Eagle  talking ; 
:  Come,  ye  white  crows,  come  and  hear  him  ! 
The  loud-speaking  thunder  helps  me  ; 
All  the  unseen  spirits  help  me ; 
I  can  hear  their  voices  calling, 
All  around  the  sky  I  hear  them ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !  " 

"Hi-au-ha  !  "  replied  the  chorus, 
Way-ha-way  !  "  the  mystic  chorus. 

"  Friends  of  mine  are  all  the  serpents  ! 
Hear  me  shake  my  skin  of  hen-hawk  ! 
Mahng,  the  white  loon,  I  can  kill  him ; 
I  can  shoot  your  heart  and  kill  it ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !  " 

*' Hi-au-ha!"  replied  the  chorus, 
"  Way-ha-way  !  "  the  mystic  chorus. 

"  I  myself,  myself  !  the  prophet ! 
When  I  speak  the  wigwam  trembles, 
Shakes  the  Sacred  Lodge  with  terror, 
Hands  unseen  begin  to  shake  it ! 
When  I  walk,  the  sky  I  tread  on 
Bends  and  makes  a  noise  beneath  me  ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother  ! 
Rise  and  speak,  O  Hiawatha !  " 

;l  Hi-au-ha  !  "  replied  the  chorus. 
"  Way-ha-way  !  "  the  mystic  chorus. 

Then  they  shook  their  medicine-pouches 
O'er  the  head  of  Hiawatha. 
Danced  their  medicine-dance  around  him ; 
And  upstarting  wild  and  haggard, 
Like  a  man  from  dreams  awakened, 
He  was  healed  of  all  his  madness. 
As  the  clouds  are  swept  from  heaven, 
Straightway  from  his  brain  departed 
All  his  moody  melancholy  ; 
As  the  ice  is  swept  from  rivers, 
Straightway  from  his  heart  departed 
All  his  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Then  they  summoned  Chibiabos 
From  his  grave  beneath  the  waters, 
From  the  sands  of  Gitche  Gumee 
Summoned  Hiawatha's  brother. 
And  so  mighty  was  the  magic 
Of  that  cry  and  invocation. 
That  he  heard  it  as  he  lay  there 
Underneath  the  Big-Sea-Water ; 
From  the  sand  he  rose  and  listened, 
Heard  the  music  and  the  singing, 
Came,  obedient  to  the  summons, 
To  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
But  to  enter  they  forbade  him. 

Through  a  chink  a  coal  they  gave  him, 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA 


141 


Through  the  door  a  burning  fire-brand  ; 

Ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits, 

Ruler  o'er  the  dead,  they  made  him, 

Telling  him  a  fire  to  kindle 

For  all  those  that  died  thereafter, 

Camp-fires  for  their  night  encampments 

On  their  solitary  journey 

To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

From  the  village  of  his  childhood, 
From  the  homes  of  those  who  knew  him, 
Passing  silent  through  the  forest, 
Like  a  smoke-wreath  wafted  sideways, 
Slowly  vanished  Chibiabos  ! 
Where  he  passed,  the  branches  moved  not, 
Where  he  trod,  the  grasses  bent  not, 
And  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year 
Made  no  sound  beneath  his  footsteps. 

Four  whole  days  he  journeyed  onward 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  dead  men  ; 
On  the  dead-man's  strawberry  feasted, 
Crossed  the  melancholy  river, 
On  the  swinging  log  he  crossed  it, 
Came  unto  the  Lake  of  Silver, 
In  the  Stone  Canoe  was  carried 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows. 

On  that  journey,  moving  slowly, 
Many  weary  spirits  saw  he, 
Panting  under  heavy  burdens, 
Laden  with  war-clubs,  bows  and  arrows, 
Robes  of  fur,  and  pots  and  kettles, 
And  with  food  that  friends  had  given 
For  that  solitary  journey. 

"Ay  !  why  do  the  living,"  said  they 
"Lay  such  heavy  burdens  on  us  ! 
Better  were  it  to  go  naked, 
Better  were  it  to  go  fasting, 
Than  to  bear  such  heavy  burdens 
On  our  long  and  weary  journey  !  " 

Forth  then  issued  Hiawatha, 
Wandered  eastward,  wandered  westward, 
Teaching  men  the  use  of  simples 
And  the  antidotes  for  poisons, 
And  the  cure  of  all  diseases. 
Thus  was  first  made  known  to  mortals 
All  the  mystery  of  Medamin, 
All  the  sacred  art  of  healing. 


XVI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
He,  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm  Fool, 
Vexed  the  village  with  disturbance; 
You  shall  hear  of  all  his  mischief, 
And  his  flight  from  Hiawatha, 
And  his  wondrous  transmigrations, 
And  the  end  of  his  adventures. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
On  the  dunes  of  Xagow  Wudjoo, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water 
Stood  the  lodge  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It  was  he  who  in  his  frenzy 
Whirled  these  drifting  sands  together, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 
When,  among  the  guests  assembled, 
He  so  merrily  and  madly 
Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding. 
Danced  the  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  them. 

Now,  in  search  of  new  adventures, 
From  his  lodge  went  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came  with  speed  into  the  village, 
Found  the  young  men  all  assembled 
In  the  lodge  of  old  lagoo, 
Listening  to  his  monstrous  stories, 
To  his  wonderful  adventures. 

He  was  telling  them  the  story, 


Of  Ojeeg,  the  Summer-Maker, 
How  he  made  a  hole  in  heaven, 
How  he  climbed  up  into  heaven, 
And  let  out  the  summer-weather, 
The  perpetual  pleasant  Summer ; 
How  the  Otter  first  essayed  it ; 
|  How  the  Beaver,  Lynx,  and  Badger 
j  Tried  in  turn  the  great  achievement, 
!  From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
I  Smote  their  fists  against  the  heavens, 
'  Smote  against  the  sky  their  foreheads, 
j  Cracked  the  sky,  but  could  not  break  it ; 
:  How  the  Wolverine,  uprising, 
|  Made  him  ready  for  the  encounter, 
|  Bent  his  knees  down,  like  a  squirrel, 
Drew  his  arms  back,  like  a  cricket. 
"Once  he  leaped,"  said  old  lagoo, 
"  Once  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Bent  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  waters  rise  beneath  it ; 
Twice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Cracked  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
Wl>en  the  freshet  is  at  highest ! 
Thrice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Broke  the  shattered  sky  asunder, 
And  he  disappeared  within  it. 
And  Ojeeg,  the  Fisher  Weasel, 
With  a  bound  went  in  behind  him  !  " 

"Hark  you  !  "  shouted  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway ; 
"  I  am  tired  of  all  this  talking, 
Tired  of  old  lagoo's  stories, 
Tired  of  Hiawatha's  wisdom. 
Here  is  something  to  amuse  you. 
Better  than  this  endless  talking." 

Then  from  out  his  pouch  of  wolf-skin 
Forth  he  drew,  with  solemn  manner, 
All  the  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Pugasaing,  with  thirteen  pieces. 
White  on  one  side  were  they  painted, 
And  vermilion  on  the  other ; 
Two  Kenabeeks  or  great  serpents, 
Two  Ininewug  or  wedge-men. 
One  great  war-club,  Pugamaugun, 
And  one  slender  fish,  the  Keego, 
Four  round  pieces,  Ozawabeeks, 
And  three  Sheshebwug  or  ducklings. 
All  were  made  of  bone  and  painted, 
All  except  the  Ozawabeeks ; 
These  were  brass,  on  one  side  burnished, 
And  were  black  upon  the  other. 

In  a  wooden  bowl  he  placed  them, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him. 
Thus  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 
"  Red  side  up  are  all  the  pieces, 
And  one  great  Kenabeek  standing 
On  the  bright  side  of  a  brass  piece, 
On  a  burnished  Ozawabeek  ; 
Thirteen  tens  and  eight  are  counted." 

Then  again  he  shook  the  pieces, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
i  Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
'  Still  exclaiming  and  explaining: 
"White  are  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
White  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men. 
Red  are  all  the  other  pieces  ; 
Five  tens  and  an  eight  are  counted." 

Thus  he  taught  the  game  of  hazard, 
Thus  displayed  it  and  explained  it. 
Running  through  its  various  chances, 
Various  changes,  various  meanings  : 
Twenty  curious  eyes  stared  at  him. 
Full  of  eagerness  stared  at  him. 

"Many  games,"  said  old  lagoo, 
"  Many  games  of  skill  and  hazard 
Have  I  seen  in  different  nations, 
Have  I  played  in  different  countries. 
He  who  plays  with  old  lagoo 
Must  have  very  nimble  fingers  ; 
Though  you  think  yourself  so  skilful 


143 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


I  can  beat  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

I  can  even  give  you  lessons 

Tn  your  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters  !  " 

So  they  sat  and  played  together, 
All  the  old  men  and  the  young  men, 
Played  for  dresses,  weapons,  wampum, 
Played  till  midnight,  played  till  morning, 
Played  until  the  Yenadizze, 
Till  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of  their  treasures  had  despoiled  them, 
Of  the  best  of  all  their  dresses, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  crests  of  feathers, 
Warlike  weapons,  pipes  and  pouches. 
Twenty  eyes  glared  wildly  at  him, 
i  Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him. 

Said  the  lucky  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 
1 '  In  my  wigwam  I  am  lonely, 
In  my  wanderings  and  adventures 
I  have  need  of  a  companion, 
Fain  would  have  a  Meshinauwa, 
An  attendant  and  pipe-bearer. 
I  will  venture  all  these  winnings, 
All  these  garments  heaped  about  me, 
All  this  wampum,  all  these  feathers, 
On  a  single  throw  will  venture 
All  against  the  young  man  yonder  !  " 
'T  was  a  youth  of  sixteen  summers, 
'T  was  a  nephew  of  lagoo  ; 
Face-in-a-Mist,  the  people  called  him. 

As  the  fire  burns  in  a  pipe-head 
Dusky  red  beneath  the  ashes, 
So  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
Glowed  the  eyes  of  old  lagoo. 
"Ugh  !  "  he  answered  very  fiercely  ; 
"  Ugh  !  "  they  answered  all  and  each  one. 

Seized  the  wooden  bowl  the  old  man, 
Closely  in  his  bony  fingers 
Clutched  the  fatal  bowl,  Onagon, 
Shook  it  fiercely  and  with  fury, 
Made  the  pieces  ring  together 
As  he  threw  them  down  before  him. 

Red  were  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
Red  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  the  Sheshebwug,  the  ducklings, 
Black  the  four  brass  Ozawabeeks, 
White  alone  the  fish,  the  Keego  ; 
Only  five  the  pieces  counted  ! 

Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook  the  bowl  and  threw  the  pieces  ; 
Lightly  in  the  air  he  tossed  them, 
And  they  fell  about  him  scattered  ; 
Dark  and  bright  the  Ozawabeeks, 
Red  and  white  the  other  pieces, 
And  upright  among  the  others 
One  Ininewug  was  standing, 
Even  as  crafty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood  alone  among  the  players, 
Saying,  "  Five  tens  !  mine  the  game  is  !  " 

Twenty  eyes  glared  at  him  fiercely, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him, 
As  he  turned  and  left  the  wigwam, 
Followed  by  his  Meshinauwa, 
By  the  nephew  of  lagoo, 
By  the  tall  and  graceful  stripling, 
Bearing  in  his  arms  the  winnings, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  pipes  and  weapons. 

"Carry  them,"  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing  with  his  fan  of  feathers, 
"  To  my  wigwam  far  to  eastward, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo  !  " 

Hot  and  red  with  smoke  and  gambling 
Were  the  eyes  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  came  forth  to  the  freshness 
Of  the  pleasant  Summer  morning. 
All  the  birds  were  singing  gayly. 
All  the  streamlets  flowing  swiftly, 
And  the  heart  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang  with  pleasure  as  the  birds  sing, 
Beat  with  triumph  like  the  streamlets, 


As  he  wandered  through  the  village, 

In  the  early  gray  of  morning, 

With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers, 

With  his  plumes  and  tufts  of  swan's  down, 

Till  he  reached  the  farthest  wigwam, 

Reached  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha. 

Silent  was  it  and  deserted  ; 
No  one  met  him  at  the  doorway, 
No  one  came  to  bid  him  welcome  ; 
But  the  birds  were  singing  round  it, 
In  and  out  and  round  the  doorway, 
Hopping,  singing,  fluttering,  feeding,       / 
And  aloft  upon  the  ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Sat  with  fiery  eyes,  and,  screaming, 
Flapped  his  wings  at  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

"All  are  gone  !  the  lodge  is  empty  !  " 
Thus  it  was  spake  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In  his  heart  resolving  mischief  ; — 
"Gone  is  wary  Hiawatha. 
Gone  the  silly  Laughing  Water, 
Gone  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
And  the  lodge  is  left  unguarded  !  " 

By  the  neck  he  seized  the  raven, 
Whirled  it  round  him  like  a  rattle, 
Like  a  medicine-pouch  he  shook  it, 
Strangled  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
From  the  ridge-pole  of  the  wigwam 
Left  its  lifeless  body  hanging, 
As  an  insult  to  its  master, 
As  a  taunt  to  Hiawatha. 

With  a  stealthy  step  he  entered, 
Round  the  lodge  in  wild  disorder 
Threw  the  household  things  about  him, 
Piled  together  in  confusion 
Bowls  of  wood  and  earthen  kettles, 
Robes  of  buffalo  and  beaver, 
Skins  of  otter,  lynx,  and  ermine, 
As  an  insult  to  Nokomis, 
As  a  taunt  to  Minnehaha. 

Then  departed  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling,  singing  through  the  forest, 
Whistling  gayly  to  the  squirrels, 
Who  from  hollow  boughs  above  him 
Dropped  their  acorn-shells  upon  him, 
Singing  gayly  to  the  wood  birds, 
Who  from  out  the  leafy  darkness 
Answered  with  a  song  as  merry. 

Then  he  climbed  the  rocky  headlands, 
Looking  o'er  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Perched  himself  upon  their  summit, 
Waiting  full  of  mirth  and  mischief 
The  return  of  Hiawatha. 

Stretched  upon  his  back  he  lay  there  ; 
Far  below  him  plashed  the  waters, 
Plashed  and  washed  the  dreamy  waters  ; 
Far  above  him  swam  the  heavens, 
Swam  the  dizzy,  dreamy  heavens  ; 
Round  him  hovered,  fluttered,  rustled, 
Hiawatha's  mountain  chickens, 
Flock-wise  swept  and  wheeled  about  him, 
Almost  brushed  him  with  their  pinions. 

And  he  killed  them  as  he  lay  there, 
Slaughtered  them  by  tens  and  twenties, 
Threw  their  bodies  down  the  headland, 
Threw  them  on  the  beach  below  him, 
Till  at  length  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gull, 
Perched  upon  a  crag  above  them, 
Shouted  :   "  It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
He  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 
Send  a  message  to  our  brother, 
Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha  !  " 


xvn. 

THE   HUNTING   OF   PAU-PUK-KKEWIS. 

FULL,  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  came  into  the  village, 
Found  the  people  in  confusion, 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


143 


Heard  of  all  the  misdemeanors. 
All  the  malice  and  the  mischief. 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Kcewis. 

Hard  his  breath  came  through  his  nostrils, 
Through  his  teeth  he  buzzed  and  muttered 
Words  of  anger  and  resentment, 
Hot  and  humming,  like  a  hornet. 
"  I  will  slay  this  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay  this  mischief-maker  !  "  said  he. 
"  Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
That  my  wrath  shall  not  attain  him, 
That  my  vengeance  shall  not  reach  him  !  " 

Then  in  swift  pursuit  departed 
Hiawatha  and  the  hunters 
On  the  trail  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through  the  forest,  where  he  passed  it, 
To  the  headlands  where  he  rested ; 
But  they  found  not  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only  in  the  trampled  grasses, 
In  the  whortleberry-bushes, 
Pound  the  couch  where  he  had  rested, 
Found  the  impress  of  his  body. 

From  the  lowlands  far  beneath  them, 
From  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis,  turning  backward, 
Made  a  gesture  of  defiance, 
Made  a  gesture  of  derision  ; 
And  aloud  cried  Hiawatha, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain  : 
"Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
And  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  !  " 

Over  rock  and  over  river. 
Thorough  bush,  and  brake,  and  forest, 
Ran  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
Like  an  antelope  lie  bounded, 
Till  he  came  unto  a  streamlet 
In  the  middle  of  the  forest. 
To  a  streamlet  still  and  tranquil, 
That  had  overflowed  its  margin, 
To  a  dam  made  by  the  beavers, 
To  a  pond  of  quiet  water. 
Where  knee-deep  the  trees  were  standing, 
Where  the  water-lilies  floated, 
Where  the  rushes  waved  and  whispered. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On  the  dam  of  trunks  and  branches, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  water  spouted, 
O'er  whose  summit  flowed  the  streamlet. 
From  the  bottom  rose  the  beaver, 
Looked  with  two  great  eyes  of  wonder, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  a  question, 
At  the  stranger,  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O  'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Flowed  the  bright  and  silvery  water, 
And  he  spake  unto  the  beaver, 
With  a  smile  he  spake  in  this  wise  : 

"O  my  friend  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
Cool  and  pleasant  is  the  water  ; 
Let  me  dive  into  the  water. 
Let  me  rest  there  in  your  lodges  ; 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  !  " 

Cautiously  replied  the  beaver, 
With  reserve  he  thus  made  answer  : 
•'Let  me  first  consult  the  others, 
Let  me  ask  the  other  beavers." 
Down  he  sank  into  the  water, 
Heavily  sank  he,  as  a  stone  sinks, 
Down  among  the  leaves  and  branches, 
Brown  and  matted  at  the  bottom. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O  'er  his  ankles  flo  wed  the  streamlet. 
Spouted  through  the  chinks  below  him, 
Dashed  upon  the  stones  beneath  him, 
Spread  serene  and  calm  before  him, 
And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Fell  in  flecks  and  gleams  upon  him, 
Fell  in  little  shining  patches, 


Through  the  waving,  rustling  branches. 

From  the  bottom  rose  the  beavers, 
Silently  above  the  surface 
Rose  one  head  and  then  another, 
Till  the  pond  seemed  full  of  beavers, 
Full  of  black  and  shining  faces. 

To  the  beavers  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake  entreating,  said  in  this  wise  : 
"Very  pleasant  is  your  dwelling, 
O  my  friends  !  and  safe  from  danger ; 
Can  you  not  with  all  your  cunning, 
All  your  wisdom  and  contrivance, 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  'i  " 

"  Yes  ! "  replied  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
He  the  King  of  all  the  beavers, 
"  Let  yourself  slide  down  among  us; 
Down  into  the  tranquil  water." 

Down  into  the  pond  among  them 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Black  became  his  shirt  of  deer-skin, 
Black  his  moccasins  and  leggings, 
In  a  broad  black  tail  behind  him 
Spread  his  fox-tails  and  his  fringes  ; 
He  was  changed  into  a  beaver. 

"Make  me  large,"  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
' '  Make  me  large  and  make  me  larger, 
Larger  than  the  other  beavers." 
"Yes,"'  the  beaver  chief  responded, 
"When  our  lodge  below  you  enter, 
In  our  wigwam  we  will  make  you 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others." 

Thus  into  the  clear,  brown  water 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
Found  the  bottom  covered  over 
With  the  trunks  of  trees  and  branches, 
Hoards  of  food  against  the  winter. 
Piles  and  heaps  against  the  famine. 
Found  the  lodge  with  arching  doorway, 
Leading  into  spacious  chambers. 

Here  they  made  him  large  and  larger, 
Made  him  largest  of  the  beavers. 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others. 
"  You  shall  l)e  our  ruler,"  said  they  ; 
"Chief  and  king  of  all  the  beavers." 

But  not  long  had  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat  in  state  among  the  beavers, 
WThen  there  came  a  voice  of  warning 
From  the  watchman  at  his  station 
In  the  water-flags  and  lilies, 


saying 


Here  is  Hiawatha  ! 


Hiawatha  with  his  hunters  !  " 

Then  they  heard  a  cry  above  them, 
Heard  a  shouting  and  a  tramping, 
Heard  a  crashing  and  a  rushing. 
And  the  water  round  and  o'er  them 
Sank  and  sucked  away  in  eddies, 
And  they  knew  their  dam  was  broken. 

On  the  lodge's  roof  the  hunters 
Leaped,  and  broke  it  all  asunder  ; 
Streamed  the  sunshine  through  the  crevice, 
Sprang  the  beavers  through  the  doorway, 
Hid  themselves  in  deeper  water, 
In  the  channel  of  the  streamlet ; 
But  the  mighty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
i  Could  not  pass  beneath  the  doorway  ; 
He  was  puffed  with  pride  and  feeding, 
He  was  swollen  like  a  bladder. 

Through  the  roof  looked  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud,  "  O  Pau-Pnk-Keewis  ! 
Vain  are  all  your  craft  and  cunning, 
Vain  your  manifold  disguises  ! 
Well  1  know  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis  !  " 

With  their  clubs  they  beat  and  bruised  him, 
Beat  to  death  poor  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
Pounded  him  as  maize  is  pounded. 
Till  his  skull  was  crushed  to  pieces. 

Six  tall  hunters,  lithe  and  limber, 
Bore  him  home  on  poles  and  branches, 
Bore  the  body  of  the  beaver ; 
But  the  ghost,  the  Jeebi  in  him. 
Thought  and  felt  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


144 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Still  lived  on  as  Pau-Puk  Keewis. 

And  it  fluttered,  strove,  and  struggled, 
Waving  hither,  waving  thither, 
As  the  curtains  of  a  wigwam 
Struggle  with  their  thongs  of  deer-skin, 
When  the  wintry  wind  is  blowing; 
Till  it  drew  itself,  together. 
Till  it  rose  up  from  the  body, 
Till  it  took  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing  into  the  forest. 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Saw  the  figure  ere  it  vanished, 
Saw  the  form  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide  into  the  soft  blue  shadow 
Of  the  pine-trees  of  the  forest ; 
Toward  the  squares  of  white  beyond  it, 
Toward  an  opening  in  the  forest, 
Like  a  wind  it  rushed  and  panted, 
Bending  all  the  boughs  before  it, 
And  behind  it,  as  the  rain  comes, 
Came  the  steps  of  Hiawatha. 

To  a  lake  with  many  islands 
Came  the  breathless  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where  among  the  water-lilies 
Pishnekuh,  the  brant,  were  sailing ; 
Through  the  tufts  of  rushes  floating, 
Steering  through  the  reedy  islands. 
Now  their  broad  black  beaks  they  lifted, 
Now  they  plunged  beneath  the  water, 
Now  they  darkened  in  the  shadow, 
Now  they  brightened  in  the  sunshine. 

"Pishnekuh  !  "  cried  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
"Pishnekuh!  my  brothers  !"  said  he, 
"Change  me  to  a  brant  with  plumage, 
With  a  shining  neck  and  feathers, 
Make  me  large,  and  make  me  larger 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others." 

Straightway  to  a  brant  they  changed  him, 
With  two  huge  and  dusky  pinions, 
With  a  bosom  smooth  and  rounded, 
With  a  bill  like  two  great  paddles, 
Made  him  larger  than  the  others, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest, 
Just  as,  shouting  from  the  forest, 
On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha. 

Up  they  rose  with  cry  and  clamor, 
With  a  whir  and  beat  of  pinions, 
Rose  up  from  the  reedy  islands, 
From  the  water-flags  and  lilies. 
And  they  said  to  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 
"  In  your  flying,  look  not  downward, 
Take  good  heed,  and  look  not  downward, 
Lest  some  strange  mischance  should  happen, 
Lest  some  great  mishap  befall  you  !  " 

Fast  and  far  they  fled  to  northward, 
Fast  and  far  through  mist  and  sunshine, 
Fed  among  the  moors  and  fen-lands, 
Slept  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

On  the  morrow  as  they  journeyed, 
Buoyed  and  lifted  by  the  South-wind, 
Wafted  onward  by  the  South-wind, 
Blowing  fresh  and  strong  behind  them, 
Rose  a  sound  of  human  voices, 
Rose  a  clamor  from  beneath  them, 
From  the  lodges  of  a  village, 
From  the  people  miles  beneath  them. 

For  the  people  of  the  village 
Saw  the  flock  of  brant  with  wonder, 
Saw  the  wings  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping  far  up  in  the  ether. 
Broader  than  two  doorway  curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis  heard  the  shouting, 
Knew  the  voice  of  Hiawatha, 
Knew  the  outcry  of  lagoo, 
And,  forgetful  of  the  warning, 
Drew  his  neck  in,  and  looked  downward, 
And  the  wind  that  blew  behind  him 
Caught  his  mighty  fan  of  feathers, 
Sent  him  wheeling,  whirling  downward  ! 
All  in  vain  did  Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Struggle  to  regain  his  balance  ! 

Whirling  round  and  round  and  downward, 

He  beheld  in  turn  the  village 

And  in  turn  the  flock  above  him, 

Saw  the  village  coming  nearer, 

And  the  flock  receding  farther, 

Heard  the  voices  growing  louder, 

Heard  the  shouting  and  the  laughter ; 

Saw  no  more  the  flock  above  him, 

Only  saw  the  earth  beneath  him  ; 

Dead  out  of  the  empty  heaven, 

Dead  among  the  shouting  people, 

With  a  heavy  sound  and  sullen. 

Fell  the  brant  with  broken  pinions. 

But  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Still  survived  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took  again  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  handsome  Yenadizze,     . 
And  again  went  rushing  onward, 
Followed  fast  by  Hiawatha, 
Crying  :  "  Not  so  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  long  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
But  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you !  " 

And  so  near  he  came,  so  near  him, 
That  his  hand  was  stretched  to  seize  him, 
His  right  hand  to  seize  and  hold  him, 
When  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled  and  spun  about  in  circles, 
Fanned  the  air  into  a  whirlwind. 
Danced  the  dust  and  leaves  about  him, 
And  amid  the  whirling  eddies 
Sprang  into  a  hollow  oak-tree, 
Changed  himself  into  a  serpent, 
Gliding  out  through  root  and  rubbish. 

With  his  right  hand  Hiawatha 
Smote  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 
Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters, 
Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 
But  in  vain  ;  for  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once  again  in  human  figure, 
Full  in  sight  ran  on  before  him. 
Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind, 
On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Westward  by  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Came  unto  the  rocky  headlands, 
To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 
Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways, 
Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 
Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 
In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary, 
Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  his  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 
Found  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 
Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 
"  Open  !  I  am  Hiawatha  !  " 
But  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer 
From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 
From  the  gloomy  rock  abysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 
Called  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee ; 
And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea-Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains  ; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder, 
Saw  the  red  eyes  of  the  lightning, 
Was  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 
With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorways, 
Smote  the  jotting  crags  of  sandstone, 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


145 


And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 
Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 
Saying,  "Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  !  " 
And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rocky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Ended  were  his  wild  adventures, 
Ended  were  his  tricks  and  gambols, 
Ended  all  his  craft  and  cunning, 
Ended  all  his  mischief -making, 
All  his  gambling  and  his  dancing, 
All  his  wooing  of  the  maidens. 

Then  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Took  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Spake  and  said  :   "  O  Pau-JPuk-Keewis, 
Never  more  in  human  figure 
Shall  you  search  for  new  adventures  ; 
Never  more  witli  jest  and  laughter 
Dance  the  dust  and  leaves  in  whirlwinds  ; 
But  above  there  in  the  heavens 
You  shall  soar  and  sail  in  circles  ; 
I  will  change  you  to  an  eagle, 
To  Keiieu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Chief  of  all  the  fowls  with  feathers, 
Chief  of  Hiawatha's  chickens." 

And  the  name  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers  still  among  the  people, 
Lingers  still  among  the  singers, 
And  among  the  story-tellers  ; 
And  in  Winter,  when  the  snow-flakes 
Whirl  in  eddies  round  the  lodges, 
When  the  wind  in  gusty  tumult 
O'er  the  smoke-flue  pipes  and  whistles, 
"There,"  they  cry,  "comes  Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
He  is  dancing  through  the  village, 
He  is  gathering  in  his  harvest !  " 


XVIII. 

THE   DEATH   OF   KWASIND. 

FAR  and  wide  among  the  nations 
Spread  the  name  and  fame  of  Kwasind ; 
No  man  dared  to  strive  with  Kwasind, 
No  man  could  compete  with  Kwasind. 
But  the  mischievous  Puk-Wudjies, 
They  the  envious  Little  People, 
They  the  fairies  and  the  pygmies, 
Plotted  and  conspired  against  him. 

"  If  this  hateful  Kwasind,"  said  they, 
"  If  this  great,  outrageous  fellow 
Goes  on  thus  a  little  longer, 
Tearing  everything  he  touches, 
Rending  everything  to  pieces, 
Filling  all  the  world  with  wonder, 
What  becomes  of  the  Puk-Wudjies  ? 
Who  will  care  for  the  Puk-Wudjies  ? 
He  will  tread  us  down  like  mushrooms, 
Drive  us  all  into  the  water, 
Give  our  bodies  to  be  eaten 
By  the  wicked  Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By  the  Spirits  of  the  water  !  " 

So  the  angry  Little  People 
All  conspired  against  the  Strong  Man, 
All  conspired  to  murder  Kwasind, 
Yes,  to  rid  the  world  of  Kwasind, 
The  audacious,  overbearing, 
Heartless,  haughty,  dangerous  Kwasind  ! 

Now  this  wondrous  strength  of  Kwasind 
In  his  crown  alone  was  seated ; 
In  his  crown  too  was  his  weakness  ; 
There  alone  could  he  be  wounded, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  pierce  him, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  harm  him. 

Even  there  the  only  weapon 
That  could  wound  him,  that  could  slay  him, 
Was  the  seed-cone  of  the  pine-tree, 
Was  the  blue  cone  of  the  fir-tree. 


This  was  Kwasind 's  fatal  secret, 
Known  to  no  man  among  mortals; 
But  the  cunning  Little  People, 
The  Puk-Wudjies,  knew  the  secret, 
Knew  the  only  way  to  kill  him. 

So  they  gathered  cones  together, 
Gathered  seed-cones  of  the  pine-tree, 
Gathered  blue  cones  of  the  fir-tree, 
In  the  woods  by  Taquamenaw, 
Brought  them  to  the  river's  margin, 
Heaped  them  in  great  piles  together, 
Where  the  red  rocks  from  the  margin 
Jutting  overhang  the  river. 
There  they  lay  in  wait  for  Kwasind, 
The  malicious  Little  People. 

'T  was  an  afternoon  in  Summer  ; 
Very  hot  and  still  the  air  was, 
Very  smooth  the  gliding  river, 
Motionless  the  sleeping  shadows  : 
Insects  glistened  in  the  sunshine, 
Insects  skated  on  the  water, 
Filled  the  drowsy  air  with  buzzing, 
With  a  far  resounding  war-cry. 

Down  the  river  came  the  Strong  Man, 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  Kwasind, 
Floating  slowly  down  the  current 
Of  the  sluggish  Taquamenaw, 
Very  languid  with  the  weather, 
Very  sleepy  with  the  silence. 

From  the  overhanging  branches, 
From  the  tassels  of  the  birch- trees, 
Soft  the  Spirit  of  Sleep  descended  ; 
By  his  airy  hosts  surrounded, 
His  invisible  attendants, 
Came  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin  ; 
Like  the  burnished  Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like  a  dragon-fly,  he  hovered 
O'er  the  drowsy  head  of  Kwasind. 

To  his  ear  there  came  a  murmur 
As  of  waves  upon  a  sea-shore, 
As  of  far-off  tumbling  waters, 
As  of  winds  among  the  pine-trees  ; 
And  he  felt  upon  his  forehead 
Blows  of  little  airy  war-clubs, 
Wielded  by  the  slumbrous  legions 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
As  of  some  one  breathing  on  him. 

At  the  first  blow  of  their  war-clubs, 
Fell  a  drowsiness  on  Kwasi  ;,d ; 
At  the  second  blow  they  smote  him, 
Motionless  his  paddle  rested  ; 
At  the  third,  before  his  vision 
Reeled  the  landscape  into  darkness, 
Very  sound  asleep  was  Kwasind. 

So  he  floated  down  the  river, 
Like  a  blind  man  seated  upright, 
|  Floated  down  the  Taquamenaw, 
j  Underneath  the  trembling  birch-trees, 
|  Underneath  the  wooded  headlands, 
Underneath  the  war  encampment 
Of  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies.  . 

There  they  stood,  all  armed  and  waiting, 
Hurled  the  pine-cones  down  upon  him, 
Struck  him  on  his  brawny  shoulders, 
On  his  crown  defenceless  struck  him. 
"  Death  to  Kwasind  !  "  was  the  sudden 
War-cry  of  the  Little  People. 

And  he  sideways  swayed  and  tumbled, 
Sideways  fell  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  sluggish  water 
Headlong,  as  the  otter  plunges; 
And  the  birch-canoe,  abandoned, 
Drifted  empty  down  the  river, 
Bottom  upward  swerved  and  drifted  : 
Nothing  more  was  seen  of  Kwasind. 

But  the  memory  of  the  Strong  Man 
Lingered  long  among  the  people, 
And  whenever  through  the  forest 
Raged  and  roared  the  wintry  tempest, 
And  the  branches,  tossed  and  troubled, 
Creaked  and  groaned  and  split  asunder, 


146 


THE    SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


"Kwasind  !  "  cried  they  ;  "that  is  Kwasind  ! 
He  is  gathering  in  his  tire-wood  !  " 


XIX. 

THE   GHOSTS. 

NEVER  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 

On  his  quarry  in  the  desert, 

On  the  sick  or  wounded  bison, 

But  another  vulture,  watching 

Prom  his  high  aerial  look-out, 

Sees  the  downward  plunge,  and  follows  ; 

And  a  third  pursues  the  second, 

Coming  from  the  invisible  ether, 

First  a  speck,  and  then  a  vulture, 

Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions. 

So  disasters  come  not  singly  ; 
But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions, 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock-wise 
Round  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a  shadow,  then  a  sorrow, 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 

Now,  o'er  all  the  dreary  Northland, 
Mighty  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Breathing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Into  stone  had  changed  their  waters. 
From  his  hair  he  shook  the  snow-flakes, 
Till  the  plains  were  strewn  with  whiteness, 
One  uninterrupted  level, 
As  if,  stooping,  the  Creator 
With  his  hand  had  smoothed  them  over. 

Through  the  forest,  wide  and  wailing, 
Roamed  the  hunter  on  his  snow-shoes  ; 
In  the  village  worked  the  women, 
Pounded  maize,  or  dressed  the  deer-skin  ; 
And  the  young  men  played  together 
On  the  ice  the  noisy  ball-play, 
On  the  plain  the  dance  of  snow-shoes. 

One  dark  evening,  after  sundown, 
In  her  wigwam  Laughing  Water 
Sat  with  old  Nokomis,  waiting 
For  the  steps  of  Hiawatha 
Homeward  from  the  hunt  returning. 

On  their  faces  gleamed  the  fire-light, 
Painting  them  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
In  the  eyes  of  old  Nokomis 
Glimmered  like  the  watery  moonlight, 
In  the  eyes  of  Laughing  Water 
Glistened  like  the  sun  in  water  ; 
And  behind  them  crouched  their  shadows 
In  the  corners  of  the  wigwam, 
And  the  smoke  in  wreaths   above  them 
Climbed  and  crowded  through  the  smoke-flue. 

Then  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
From  without  was  slowly  lifted  ; 
Brighter  glowed  the  fire  a  moment, 
And  a  moment  swerved  the  smoke-wreath, 
As  two  women  entered  softly, 
Passed  the  doorway  uninvited, 
Without  word  of  salutation, 
Without  sign  of  recognition, 
Sat  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 
Crouching  low  among  the  shadows. 

From  their  aspect  and  their  garments, 
Strangers  seemed  they  in  the  village  ; 
Very  pale  and  haggard  were  they, 
As  they  sat  there  sad  and  silent, 
Trembling,  cowering  with  the  shadows. 

Was  it  the  wind  above  the  smoke-flue, 
Muttering  down  into  the  wigwam  V 
Was  it  the  owl,  the  Koko-koho, 
Hooting  from  the  dismal  forest  ? 
Sure  a  voice  said  in  the  silence  : 
"  These  are  corpses  clad  in  garments, 
These  are  ghosts  that  come  to  haunt  you, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  !  " 


Homeward  now  came  Hiawatha 
From  his  hunting  in  the  forest, 
With  the  snow  urjon  his  tresses, 
And  the  red  deer  on  his  shoulders. 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Down  he  threw  his  lifeless  burden  ; 
Nobler,  handsomer  she  thought  him, 
Than  when  first  he  came  to  woo  her, 
First  threw  down  the  deer  before  her, 
As  a  token  of  his  wishes, 
As  a  promise  of  the  future. 

Then  he  turned  and  saw  the  strangers, 
Cowering,  crouching  with  the  shadows  ; 
Said  within  himself,  "  Who  are  they  V 
What  strange  guests  has  Minnehaha  ?  " 
But  he  questioned  not  the  strangers, 
Only  spake  to  bid  them  welcome 
To  his  lodge,  his  food,  his  fireside. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  deer  had  been  divided, 
Both  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Springing  from  among  the  shadows, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions, 
Seized  the  white  fat  of  the  roebuck, 
Set  apart  for  Laughing  Water, 
For  the  wife  of  Hiawatha ; 
Without  asking,  without  thanking, 
Eagerly  devoured  the  morsels, 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows 
In  the  corner  of  the  wigwam. 

Not  a  word  spake  Hiawatha, 
Not  a  motion  made  Nokomis, 
Not  a  gesture  Laughing  Water; 
Not  a  change  came  o'er  their  features  ; 
Only  Minnehaha  softly 
Whispered,  saying,  ' '  They  are  famished ; 
Let  them  do  what  best  delights  them  ; 
Let  them  eat,  for  they  are  famished." 

Many  a  daylight  dawned  and  darkened, 
Many  a  night  shook  off  the  daylight 
As  the  pine  shakes  off  the  snow-flakes 
From  the  midnight  of  its  branches; 
Day  by  day  the  guests  unmoving 
Sat  there  silent  in  the  wigwam ; 
But  by  night,  in  storm  or  starlight, 
Forth  they  went  into  the  forest, 
Bringing  fire-wood  to  the  wigwam, 
Bringing  pine-cones  for  the  burning, 
Always  sad  and  always  silent. 

And  whenever  Hiawatha 
Came  from  fishing  or  from  hunting, 
When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  food  had  been  divided, 
Gliding  from  their  darksome  corner, 
Came  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions 
Set  aside  for  Laughing  Water, 
And  without  rebuke  or  question 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows. 

Never  once  had  Hiawatha 
By  a  word  or  look  reproved  them ; 
Never  once  had  old  Nokomis 
Made  a  gesture  of  impatience  ; 
Never  once  had  Laughing  Water 
Shown  resentment  at  the  outrage. 
All  had  they  endured  in  silence, 
That  the  rights  of  guest  and  stranger, 
That  the  virtue  of  free-giving, 
By  a  look  might  not  be  lessened, 
By  a  word  might  not  be  broken . 

Once  at  midnight  Hiawatha, 
Ever  wakeful,  ever  watchful, 
In  the  wigwam,  dimly  lighted 
By  the  brands  that  still  were  burning, 
By  the  glimmering,  flickering  fire-light, 
Heard  a  sighing,  oft  repeated, 
Heard  a  sobbing,  as  of  sorrow. 

From  his  couch  rose  Hiawatha, 
From  his  shaggy  hides  of  bison, 
Pushed  aside  the  deer-skin  curtain, 
Saw  the  pallid  guests,  the  shadows, 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


147 


Sitting  upright  on  their  couches, 
Weeping  in  the  silent  midnight. 

And  he  said  :   "  O  guests  !  why  is  it 
That  your  hearts  are  so  afflicted, 
That  you  sob  so  in  the  midnight  ? 
Has  perchance  the  old  Nokomis, 
Has  my  wife,  my  Minnehaha, 
Wronged  or  grieved  you  by  unkindness, 
Failed  in  hospitable  duties  V  " 

Then  the  shadows  ceased  from  weeping, 
Ceased  from  sobbing  and  lamenting, 
And  they  said,  with  gentle  voices  : 
' '  We  are  ghosts  of  the  departed, 
Souls  of  those  who  once  were  with  you. 
From  the  realms  of  Chibiabos 
Hither  have  we  come  to  try  you, 
Hither  have  we  come  to  warn  you. 

' '  Cries  of  grief  and  lamentation 
Reach  us  in  the  Blessed  Islands  ; 
Cries  of  anguish  from  the  living, 
Calling  back  their  friends  departed, 
Sadden  us  with  useless  sorrow. 
Therefore  have  we  come  to  try  you ; 
No  one  knows  us,  no  one  heeds  us. 
We  are  but  a  burden  to  you, 
And  we  see  that  the  departed 
Have  no  place  among  the  living. 

"Think  of  this,  O  Hiawatha  ! 
Speak  of  it  to  all  the  people, 
That  henceforward  and  forever 
They  no  more  with  lamentations 
Sadden  the  souls  of  the  departed 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

"  Do  not  lay  such  heavy  burdens 
In  the  graves  of  those  you  bury, 
Not  such  weight  of  furs  and  wampum, 
Not  such  weight  of  pots  and  kettles, 
For  the  spirits  faint  beneath  them. 
Only  give  them  food  to  carry, 
Only  give  them  fire  to  light  them. 

"Four  days  is  the  spirit's  journey 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows. 
Four  its  lonely  night  encampments  ; 
Four  times  must  their  fires  be  lighted. 
Therefore,  when  the  dead  are  buried, 
Let  a  fire,  as  night  approaches, 
Four  times  on  the  grave  be  kindled, 
That  the  soul  upon  its  journey 
May  not  lack  the  cheerful  fire-light, 
May  not  grope  about  in  darkness. 

"  Farewell,  noble  Hiawatha  ! 
We  have  put  you  to  the  trial, 
To  the  proof  have  put  your  patience, 
By  the  insult  of  our  presence, 
By  the  outrage  of  our  actions. 
We  have  found  you  great  and  noble. 
Fail  not  in  the  greater  trial, 
Faint  not  in  the  harder  struggle. " 

When  they  ceased,  a  sudden  darkness 
Fell  and  filled  the  silent  wigwam. 
Hiawatha  heard  a  rustle 
As  of  garments  trailing  by  him, 
Heard  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
Lifted  by  a  hand  he  saw  not, 
Felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  night  air, 
For  a  moment  saw  the  starlight ; 
But  he  saw  the  ghosts  nu  longer, 
Saw  no  more  the  wandering  spirits 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

XX. 

THE  FAMINE. 

O  THE  long  and  dreary  Winter  ! 
O  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter  ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Pell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 


Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage  ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

O  the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 
O  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 
O  the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children  ! 

0  the  anguish  of  the  vsomen  ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished  ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them. 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  the  .hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them  ! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water ; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said  :  "  Behold  me  ! 

1  am  Famine,  Bukadawin  !  " 
And  the  other  said  :   "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  ! 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer  ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha  ; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness  ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows. 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

"Gitche  Mar.ito,  the  Mighty  !  " 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"  Give  your  children  food,  O  father  ! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish  ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  !  " 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
"  Minnehaha  !  Minnehaha  !  " 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 


148 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered. 


"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !  " 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watched  her; 
With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 
She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

"  Hark  !  "  she  said  ;  "  I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance  !  " 
"  No,  my  child  !  "  said  old  Nokomis. 
"  'T  is  the  night- wind  in  the  pine-trees  !  " 

"  Look  !  "  she  said  ;   "  I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  !  " 
"No,  my  child!  "  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'T  is  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beckons  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  she,  "  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  ! 
Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !  " 
And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"  Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !  " 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
tinder  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted. 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 
"  Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  ! 
Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are  ! 
Wahonowin !  Wahonowin  !  " 


And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam. 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish, 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha  ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks  ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine ; 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine, 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


149 


That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"  Farewell  !  "  said  he,  "  Minnehaha ! 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water  ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body.     ' 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  !  " 


XXI. 

THE  WHITE  MAN*'S  FOOT. 

IN  his  lodge  beside  a  river, 
Close  beside  a  frozen  river, 
Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 
White  his  hair  was  as  a  snow-drift ; 
Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 
And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled, 
Folded  in  his  Waubewyon, 
In  his  tattered  white-skin  wrapper, 
Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 
As  it  roared  along  the  forest, 
Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 
As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 

All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes, 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 
As  a  young  man,  walking  lightly, 
At  the  open  doorway  entered. 
Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were, 
Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses, 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses  ; 
On  his  lips  a  smile  of  beauty, 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sunshine, 
In  his  hand  a  bunch  of  blossoms 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetness. 

"  An,  rny  son  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
"  Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 
Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 
Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 
Let  us  pass  the  night  together. 
Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures, 
Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled  ; 
I  will  tell  you  of  my  prowess, 
Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder." 

From  his  pouch  he  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned  ; 
Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 
And  the  stem  a  reed  of  feathers  ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a  burning  coal  upon  it, 
Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger, 
And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise  : 

•'  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 
Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water  !  " 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling: 
"When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o'er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers  !  " 

"  When  I  shake  my  hoary  tresses," 
Said  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 
"  All  the  land  with  snow  is  covered; 
All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 
For  I  breathe,  and  lo  !  they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 
For  I  speak,  and  lo  !  they  are  not. 


And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
And  the  earth  becomes  as  flintstone  ! '' 

"  When  I  shake  my  flowing  ringlets," 
Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing, 
"  Showers  of  rain  fall  warm  and  welcome, 
Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 
Back  unto  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Homeward  shoots  the  arrowy  swallow, 
Sing  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  meadows  wave  with  blossoms, 
All  the  woodlands  ring  with  music, 
All  the  trees  are  dark  with  foliage  !  " 

While  they  spake,  the  night  departed  : 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 
From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 
Like  a  warrior  robed  and  painted, 
Came  the  sun,  and  said,  ''Behold  me  ! 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me  !  " 

Then  the  old  man's  tongue  was  speechless 
And  the  air  grew  warm  and  pleasant, 
And  upon  the  wigwam  sweetly 
'  Sang  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 
And  a  scent  of  growing  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  was  gently  wafted. 

And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger, 
More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  icy  face  before  him  ; 
It  was  Peboan,  the  Winter  ! 
j-      From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing, 

As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 
'  And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 
Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 
Till  into  the  ground  it  vanished. 
And  the  young  man  saw  before  him, 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam, 
Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smouldered, 
Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Beauty  of  the  Spring  -time, 
Saw  the  Miskodeed  in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  North-land 
After  that  unheard-of- coldness, 
That  intolerable  Winter, 
Came  the  Spring  with  all  its  splendor, 
All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms, 
All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 
Flying  in  great  flocks,  like  arrows, 
Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahiiahbezee, 
Speaking  almost  as  a  man  speaks ; 
And  in  long  lines  waving,  bending 
Like  a  bow-string  snapped  asunder, 
Came  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa ; 
And  in  pairs,  or  singly  flying, 
Mahng  the  loon,  with  clangorous  pinions, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  pigeon,  the  Omemee, 
And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha, 
Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorrow, 
Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 
Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doorway, 
Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven. 
Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  waters. 

From  his  wanderings  far  to  eastward, 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning. 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  now  returned  lagoo, 
The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster, 
Full  of  new  and  strange  adventures, 


150 


THE   SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 
Laughing  answered  him  in  this  wise : 
"  Ugh  !  it  is  indeed  lagoo  ! 
No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  !  " 

He  had  seen,  he  said,  a  water 
Bigger  than  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Broader  than  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it ! 
At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 
Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 
Smiled,  and  said,  "It  cannot  be  so  ! 
Kaw  !  "  they  said,  "  it  cannot  be  so  !  " 

O'er  it,  said  he,  o'er  this  water 
Came  a  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
A  canoe  with  wings  came  flying, 
Bigger  than  a  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-tops  ! 
And  the  old  men  and  the  women 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other  ; 
"  Kaw !  "  they  said,  '*  we  don't  believe  it !  " 

From  its  mouth,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  aloud  at  poor  lagoo  ; 
"  Kaw  !  "  they  said,  "  what  tales  you  tell  us  !  " 

In  it,  said  he,  came  a  people, 
In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a  hundred  warriors  ; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces, 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and  shouted  in  derision, 
Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops. 
Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlocks. 
"  Kaw  !  "  they  said,  "  what  lies  you  tell  us  ! 
Do  not  think  that  we  believe  them  !" 

Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 
But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting  : 
"  True  is  all  lagoo  tells  us  ; 
I  have  seen  it  in  a  vision, 
Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 
Seen  the  coming  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
Fiom  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

' '  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Sends  them  hither  on  his  errand, 
Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe'er  they  move,  before  them 
Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  Ahmo. 
Swarms  the  bee,  the  honey-maker  ; 
Wheresoe'er  they  tread,  beneath  them 
Springs  a  flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  White  man's  Foot  in  blossom. 

"  Let  us  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart's  right  hand  of  friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Said  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

"1  beheld,  too,  in  that  vision 
All  the  secrets  of  the  future, 
Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  be. 
I  beheld  the  westward  marches 
Of  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 
All  the  land  was  full  of  people, 
Restless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 
In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 
Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers 
Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

"  Then  a  darker,  drearier  vision 


Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like  : 
I  beheld  our  nation  scattered, 
All  forgetful  of  my  counsels, 
Weakened,  warring  with  each  other  ; 
Saw  the  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woeful, 
Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a  tempest, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  ! " 


XXII. 

HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE. 

BY  the  shore  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
In  the  pleasant  Summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 

All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness, 
All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 
And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo, 
Passed  the  bees,  the  honey-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him  ; 
From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon, 
Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine ; 
On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 
Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water. 

r'rom  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 
As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 
As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 
With  a  look  of  exultation, 
As  of  one  who  in  a  vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 
Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted, 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it. 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water, 
Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  flying, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver? 
Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada  V 
Or  the  heron,  the  Shu-shu-gah  ? 
Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 
With  the  water  dripping,  flashing, 
From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers  ? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron, 
O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning, 
But  a  birch  canoe  with  paddles, 
Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 
Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 
And  within  it  came  a  people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 
From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face, 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 
With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 
Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 
Waited,  full  of  exultation, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles. 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


151 


Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 
Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise  : 
"Beautiful  is  the  sun,  O  strangers, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 
All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you  ; 
You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 
For  the  heart's  right  hand  we  give  you. 

"  Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly, 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 
As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil. 
Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars  ; 
For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

"Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavor, 
Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 
As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning. 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  " 

And'the  Black-Robe  chief  made  answer, 
Stammered  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  : 
"Peace  be  with  you,  Hiawatha, 
Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people. 
Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary  !  " 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
Led  the  strangers  to  his  wigwam, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis 
Brought  them  food  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 
And  th<;  calumet,  the  peace-pipe. 
Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking. 

All  the  old  men  of  the  village, 
All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 
All  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets, 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  medicine  men,  the  Medas, 
Came  to  bid  the  strangers  welcome  ; 
"  It  is  well,"  they  said,  "  O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  " 
In  a  circle  round  the  doorway, 
With  their  pipes  the}'  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers, 
Waiting  to  receive  their  message  ; 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  ; 
"It  is  well,"  they  siid,  "O  brother, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  '' 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  prophet, 
Told  his  message  to  the  people, 
Told  the  purport  of  his  mission, 
Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 
How  in  distant  lands  and  ages 
He  had  lived  on  earth  as  we  do  ; 
How  he  faste  d,prayed,  and  labored  ; 
How  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 
Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified  him  ; 
How  he  rose  from  where  they  laid  him. 
Walked  again  with  his  disciples, 
And  ascended  into  heaven. 

And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying : 
"We  have  listened  to  your  message, 
We  have  heard  your  words  of  wisdom, 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 
It  is  well  for  us,  O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  " 

Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 


To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers 
Whom  the  Master  of  Life  had  sent  them 
From  the  shilling  land  of  Wabun. 

Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  Summer  ; 
With  a  drowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 
With  a  sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it ; 
From  the  cornfield  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pau-puk-keena ; 
Ana  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 
Weary  with  the  heat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 

Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening's  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  ot  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow  ; 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam, 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 
Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 
Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 
Did  not  wake  the  guests,  that  slumbered  : 

"I  am  going,  O  Nokomis, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest  wind,  Keewaydin. 
But  these  guests  1  leave  behind  me, 
In  your  watch  and  ward  I  leave  them ; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them, 
See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 
Never  danger  nor  suspicion. 
Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 
In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha  !  " 

Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise  : 

"I  am  going,  O  my  people, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey  ; 
Many  moons  and  many  winters 
Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished, 
Ere  I  come  again  to  see  you. 
But  my  guests  I  leave  behind  me  ; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you, 
For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning  !  " 

Ou  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 
Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting ; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing. 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water  ; 
Whispered  to  it,  "Westward!  westward!'' 
.  And  with  speed  it  darted  forward. 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
!  Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
|  Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
I  Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  e\  ening. 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 
Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And  they  said,  "Farewell  forever ! " 
Said,  "  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 


153 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely, 

Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  darkness, 

Sighed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  !  " 

And  the  waves  upon  the  margin. 

Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles 

Sobbed,  "  Farewell,  O  Hiafwatha  ! 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah 

From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 

Screamed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha! 


Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest  wind  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter ! 


\ 


To  and  fro  in  a  room  of  his  simple  and  primitive  dwelling. 


MILES   STANDISH. 

IN  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land  of 
the  Pilgrims, 

To  and  fro  in  a  room  of  his  simple  and  primitive 
dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cordovan 
leather, 

Strode,  with  a  martial  air,  Miles  Standish  the 
Puritan  Captain. 

Buried  in  thought  he  seemed,  with  his  hands  be 
hind  him,  and  pausing 

Ever  and  anon  to  behold  his  glittering  weapons 
of  warfare, 

Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls  of  the 
chamber, — 

Cutlass  and  corselet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty  sword 
of  Damascus, 

Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its  mysti 
cal  Arabic  sentence, 

While  underneath,  in  -a  corner,  were  fowling- 
piece,  musket,  and  matchlock. 


Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built  and 
athletic, 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with  mus 
cles  and  sinews  of  iron  ; 

Brown  as  a  nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet  beard 
was  already 

Flaked  with  patches  of  snow,  as  hedges  some 
times  in  November. 

Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend,  and 
household  companion, 

Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a  table  of  pine  by 
the  window ; 

Fair-haired,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon  com 
plexion, 

Having  the  dew  of  his  youth,  and  the  beauty 
thereof,  as  the  captives 

Whom  Saint  Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed,'  "  Not 
Angles,  but  Angels." 

Youngest  of  all  was  he  of  the  men  who  came  in 
the  May  Flower. 


Suddenly  breaking    the    silence,    the   diligent 
scribe  interrupting, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


153 


Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles  Standish 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 
"Look   at  these   arms,"   he  said,    "the  warlike 

weapons  that  hang  here 
Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for  parade 

or  inspection  ! 
This  is  the  sword  of  Damascus  I  fought  with  in 

Flanders;  this  breastplate, 
Well  I  remember  the  day  !  once  saved  my  life  in 

a  skirmish ; 
Here  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of  the 

bullet 
Fired    point-blank   at  my   heart   by   a   Spanish 

arcabucero. 
Had  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,  the  forgotten  bones 

of  Miles  Standish 
Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their  grave 

in  the  Flemish  morasses." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  but  looked  not 

up  from  his  writing  : 
"Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slackened 

the  speed  of  the  bullet ; 
He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our  shield 

and  our  weapon  !  " 
Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the  words 

of  the  stripling  : 
"See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if  in  an 

arsenal  hanging ; 
That  is  because  I  have  done  it  myself,  and  not 

left  it  to  others. 
Serve  yourself,  would  you  be  well  served,  is  an 

excellent  adage  ; 
So  I  take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your  pens 

and  your  inkhorn. 

Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great,  invin 
cible  army, 
Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each  his  rest 

and  his  matchlock, 
Eighteen    shillings  a  month,  together  with  diet 

and  pillage, 
And,  like  Caesar,  I  know  the  name  of  each  of  my 

soldiers ! " 
This  he  said  with  a  smile,  that  danced  in  his  eyes, 

as  the  sunbeams 
Dance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish  again 

in  a  moment. 
Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the  Captain 

continued  : 
"Look  !  you  can  see  from  this  window  my  brazen 

howitzer  planted 
High  on  tlie  roof  of  the  church,  a  preacher  who 

speaks  to  the  purpose, 

Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with  irresist 
ible  logic, 
Orthodox,    flashing    conviction    right    into    the 

hearts  of  the  heathen. 
Now  we  are  ready,  I  think,  for  any  assault  of  the 

Indians ; 
Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner  they 

try  it  the  better, — 
Let   them   come  if  they   like,    be   it  sagamore, 

sachem,  or  pow-wow, 
Aspinet,  Samoset,  Corbitant,  Squanto,  or  Toka- 

mahamon  !  " 

Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wistfully 

gazed  on  the  landscape, 
Washed  with  a  cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory  breath 

of  the  east-wind, 
Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel-blue 

rim  of  the  ocean, 
Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shadows 

and  sunshine. 
Over  his  countenance  flitted  a  shadow  like  those 

on  the  landscape, 
Gloom  intermingled  with  light ,  and  his  voice  was 

subdued  with  emotion, 

Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a  pause  he  pro 
ceeded  : 
"  Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies  buried 

Rose  Standish  ; 


Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me  by  the 

wayside ! 
She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in  the 

May  Flower ! 
Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of  wheat  we 

have  sown  there, 
Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  scouts  the  graves 

of  our  people, 
Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how  many 

already  have  perished  !  " 
Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up  and  down, 

and  was  thoughtful. 

Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a  shelf  of  books, 
and  among  them 

Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for  bulk  and 
for  binding  ; 

Bariffe's  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Commentaries 
of  Caesar 

Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur  Goldingo 
of  London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them  was 
standing  the  Bible. 

Musing  a  moment  before  them.  Miles  Standish 
paused,  as  if  doubtful 

Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for  his  con 
solation  and  comfort, 

Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  famous 
campaigns  of  the  Romans, 

Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  belligeren ': 
Christians. 

Finally  down  from  its  shelf  he  dragged  the  pon 
derous  Roman, 

Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened  th? 
book,  and  in  silence 

Turned  o'er  the  well-worn  leaves,  where  thumb- 
marks  thick  on  the  margin, 

Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the  battle 
was  hottest. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying 
pen  of  the  stripling, 

Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by  the 
May  Flower, 

Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day  at 
latest,  God  willing  ! 

Homeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all  that  ter 
rible  winter. 

Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the  name  of 
Priscilla, 

Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan 
maiden  Priscilla  ! 


II. 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 

NOTHING  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying 

pen  of  the  stripling, 
Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring  heart  of 

the  Captain, 
Reading  the  marvellous  words  and  achievements 

of  Julius  Caesar. 
After  awhile  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote  with  his 

hand,  palm  downwards, 
Heavily  on  the  page :   "A  wonderful  man  was 

this  Caesar  ! 
You  are  a  writer,  and  I  am  a  fighter,  but  here  is 

a  fellow 
Who  could  both  write  and  fight,  and  in  both  was 

equally  skilful !  " 
Straightway  answered  and  spake  John  Alden,  the 

comely,  the  youthful : 
"  Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say,  with  his 

pen  and  his  weapons. 
Somewhere  have  I  read,  but  where  I  forget,  he 

could  dictate 
Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time  writing 

his  memoirs." 
"Truly,"  continued  the  Captain,  not  heeding  or 

hearing  the  other, 


154 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


"  Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius 
Caesar  ! 

Better  be  first,  he  said,  in  a  little  Iberian  vil 
lage, 

Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I  think  he  was 
right  when  he  said  it. 

Twice  he  was  married  before  he  was  twenty,  and 
many  times  after ; 

Battles  five  hundred  he  fought,  and  a  thousand 
cities  he  conquered ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  as  he  himself  has  re 
corded  ; 

Finally  he  was  stabbed  by  his  friend,  the  orator 
Brutus ! 

Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a  certain  occa 
sion  in  Flanders, 

When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated,  the 
front  giving  way  too, 

And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was  crowded 
so  closely  together 

There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ?  Why,  he 
seized  a  shield  from  a  soldier, 

Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his  troops, 
and  commanded  the  captains, 

Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  forward  the 
ensigns  ; 

Then  to  widen  the  ranks,  and  give  more  room  for 
their  weapons ; 

So  he  won  the  day,  the  battle  of  something-or- 
other. 

That 's  what  I  always  say  ;  if  you  wish  a  thing  to 
be  well  done, 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to 
others ! " 

All  was  silent  again  ;  the  Captain  continued  his 

reading. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying 

pen  of  the  stripling 
Writing  epistles  important  to  go  next  day  by  the 

May  Flower, 
Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan 

maiden  Priscilla ; 
Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the  name  of 

Priscilla, 
Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  confided  the 

secret, 
Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing  and  shouting  the 

name  of  Priscilla ! 

Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a  bang  of  the  pon 
derous  cover, 
Sudden  and    loud    as  the    sound  of    a    soldier 

grounding  his  musket, 
Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Standish  the 

Captain  of  Plymouth : 
"When   you  have   finished   your  work,  I   have 

something  important  to  tell  you. 
Be  not  however  in  haste  ;  I  can  wait ;  I  shall  not 

be  impatient ! " 
Straightway  Alden  replied,  as  he  folded  the  last 

of  his  letters, 
Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  respectful 

attention : 
"  Speak ;  for  whenever  you  speak,  I  am  always 

ready  to  listen, 
Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to  Miles 

Standish." 
Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embarrassed, 

and  culling  his  phrases  : 
'"T  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be  alone,  say  the 

Scriptures. 

This  I  have  said  before,  and  again  and  again  I  re 
peat  it ; 
Every  hour  in  the  day,  I  think  it,  and  feel  it,  and 

say  it. 
Since  Rose  Standish    died,    my  life    has    been 

weary  and  dreary ; 
Sick  at  heart  have  I  been,  beyond  the  healing  of 

friendship. 
Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I  thought  of  the 

maiden  Priscilla. 


She  is  alone  in  the  world  ;  her  father  and  mother 

and  brother 
Died  in  the  winter  together ;  I  saw  her  going  and 

coming, 
Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to  the  bed 

of  the  dying, 

Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said  to  my 
self,  that  if  ever 
There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are  angels  in 

heaven, 
Two  have  I  seen  and  known ;  and  the  angel  whose 

name  is  Priscilla 
Holds  in  my   desolate  life  the  place  which  the 

other  abandoned. 
Long  have  I    cherished  the  thought,  but  never 

have  dared  to  reveal  it, 
Being  a  coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough  for 

the  most  part. 
Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest  maiden 

of  Plymouth, 
Say  that  a  blunt  old  Captain,  a  man  not  of  words 

but  of  actions, 
Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and  heart 

of  a  soldier. 
Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in  short 

is  my  meaning ; 
I  am    a  maker  of    war,    and  not   a  maker  of 

phrases. 

You,  who  are  bred  of  a  scholar,  can  say  it  in  ele 
gant  language, 
Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  pleadings 

and  wooings  of  lovers, 
Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the  heart 

of  a  maiden." 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the  fair- 
haired,  taciturn  stripling, 

All  aghast  as  his  words,  surprised,  embarrassed, 
bewildered, 

Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the  sub 
ject  with  lightness, 

Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart  stand 
still  in  his  bosom, 

Just  as  a  timepiece  stops  in  a  house  that  is  stricken 
by  lightning, 

Thus  made  answer  and  spake,  or  rather  stam 
mered  than  answered : 

"  Such  a  message  as  that,  lam  sure  I  should  man 
gle  and  mar  it ; 

If  you  would  have  it  well  done, — I  am  only  re 
peating  your  maxim, — 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to 
others!  " 

But  with  the  air  of  a  man  whom  nothing  can  turn 
from  his  purpose, 

Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the 
Captain  of  Plymouth : 

' '  Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  I  do  not  mean  to 
gainsay  it  ; 

But  we  must  use  it  discreetly,  and  not  waste 
powder  for  nothing. 

Now,  as  I  said  before,  I  was  never  a  maker  of 
phrases. 

I  can  march  up  to  a  fortress  and  summon  the 
place  to  surrender, 

But  march  up  to  a  woman  with  such  a  proposal, 
I  dare  not. 

I'm  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the 
mouth  of  a  cannon, 

But  of  the  thundering  "No  !  "  point-blank  from 
the  mouth  of  a  woman, 

That  I  confess  I  'm  afraid  of,  nor  am  I  ashamed 
to  confess  it  !  " 

So  you  must  grant  my  request,  for  you  are  an  ele 
gant  scholar, 

Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in  the 
turning  of  phrases." 

Taking  the  hand  of  his  friend,  who  still  was  re 
luctant  and  doubtful, 

Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it  kindly, 
he  added : 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


155 


"  Though  I  have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet  deep  is 
the  feeling  that  prompts  me ; 

Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I  ask  in  the  name 
of  our  friendship  !  " 

Then  made  answer  John  Alden  :  "  The  name  of 
friendship  is  sacred  ; 

What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I  have  not  the 
power  to  deny  you  ! '' 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  subduing  and  mould 
ing  the  gentler, 

Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden  went 
on  his  errand. 

ILL 
THE  LOYEK'S  ERRAND. 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on 
his  errand, 

Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the  paths 
of  the  forest, 

Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds  and 
robins  were  building 

Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging  gar 
dens  of  verdure, 

Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection  and 
freedom. 

All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him  com 
motion  and  conflict, 

Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self  with 
each  generous  impulse. 

To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were  heav 
ing  and  dashing, 

As  in  a  foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of.  the 
vessel. 

Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge  of  the 
ocean  ! 

"Must  I  relinquish  it  all,"  he  cried  with  a  wild 
lamentati  on ,  — 

"Must  I  relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope,  the 
illusion  V 

Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited,  and  wor 
shipped  in  silence  V 

Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying  feet  and 
the  shadow 

Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores  of  Xew 
England  ? 

Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its  depths 
of  corruption 

Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phantoms  of 
passion ; 

Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  delusions 
of  Satan. 

All  is  clear  to  me  now  ;  I  feel  it,  I  see  it  distinctly  ! 

This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord ;  it  is  laid  upon  me 
in  anger, 

For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's  desires 
and  devices, 

Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impious  idols  i 
of  Baal. 

This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear ;  the  sin  and  the 
swift  retribution." 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  j 
went  on  his  errand  ; 

Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it  brawled 
over  pebble  and  shallow, 

Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers 
blooming  around  him, 

Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange  and  won 
derful  sweetness, 

Children  lost  in  the  woods,  and  covered  with  I 
leaves  in  their  slumber. 

"Puritan  flowers,"  he  said,  "and  the  type  of  j 
Puritan  maidens, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  very  type  of  j 
Priscilla  ! 

So  I  will  take  them  to  her  ;  to  Priscilla  the  May 
flower  of  Plymouth, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a  parting  gift 
will  I  take  them ; 


Breathing  their  silent  farewells,  as  tkey  fade  and 

wither  and  perish, 
Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the 

giver." 
So   through   the   Plymouth  woods  John   Alden 

went  on  his  errand  ; 
Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk  of  the 

ocean, 
Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with   the   comfortless 

breath  of  the  east-wind ; 
Saw  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at  work  in  a 

meadow ; 
Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,    the  musical 

voice  of  Priscilla 

Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand  old  Puri 
tan  anthem, 
Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words  of  the 

Psalmist, 

Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling  and  com 
forting  many. 
Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  form 

of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool  like 

a  snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the 

ravenous  spindle, 
While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided  the 

wheel  in  its  motion. 

Open  wide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well-worn  psalm- 
book  of  Ainsworth, 
Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the  music 

together, 
Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in  the  wall 

of  a  churchyard, 
Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running  vine  of 

the  verses. 
Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang  the 

old  Puritan  anthem, 
She,  the   Puritan   girl,    in  the   solitude   of    the 

forest, 
Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest  apparel 

of  home-spun 
Beautiful  with   her  beauty,  and  rich  with  the 

wealth  of  her  being  ! 
Over  him  rushed,  like  a  wind  that  is  keen  and 

cold  and  relentless, 
Thoughts   of    what   might   have   been,  and  the 

weight  and  vtoe  of  his  errand; 
All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the  hopes 

that  had  vanished, 
All  his  life  henceforth  a   dreary  and  tenantless 

mansion, 
Haunted   by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,   sorrowf  ul 

faces. 
Still  .he   said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely  he 

said  it, 
"  Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough 

look  backwards  ; 
Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the  flowers 

of  life  to  its  fountains, 
Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead  and 

the  hearths  of  the  living. 
It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord ;  and  his  mercy  endur- 

eth  forever  !  " 

So  he  entered  the  house :  and  the  hum  of  the 
wheel  and  the  singing 

Suddenly  ceased ;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by  his 
step  on  the  threshold, 

Rose  as  he  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  in  sig 
nal  of  welcome,  . 

Saying,  ' '  I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard  your 
step  in  the  passage  ; 

For  I  was  thinking  of  you,  as  I  sat  there  singing 
and  spinning. " 

Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a  thought 
of  him  had  been  mingled 

Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from  the 
heart  of  the  maiden. 

Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her  the  flow 
ers  for  an  answer, 


156 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.  He  remem 
bered  that  day  in  the  winter, 

After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke  a  path 
from  the  village, 

Reeling  and  plunging  along  through  the  drifts 
that  encumbered  the  doorway, 

Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  entered 
the  house,  and  Priscilla 

Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him  a  seat 
by  the  fireside, 

Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had  thought  of 
her  in  the  snow-storm. 

Had  he  but  spoken  then  !  perhaps  not  in  vain  had 
he  spoken ; 

Now  it  was  all  too  late ;  the  golden  moment  had 
vanished ! 

So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her  the  flow 
ers  for  an  answer. 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds  and 

the  beautiful  Spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,   and  the  May 

Flower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow. 
"I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently  the 

Puritan  maiden, 
"  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of  the 

hedge  rows  of  England, — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all 

like  a  garden ; 
Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of  the 

lark  and  the  linnet, 
Seeing  the  village  street,  ard  familiar  faces  of 

neighbors 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to   gossip 

together, 
And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village  church, 

with  the  ivy 
Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet  graves 

in  the  churchyard. 
Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear  to  me 

my  religion  ; 
Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself  back 

in  Old  England. 
You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  cannot  help  it :  I 

almost 

Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I  feel  so  lone 
ly  and  wretched." 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth  :   "  Indeed  I  do 

not  condemn  you ; 
Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed  in 

this  terrible  winter. 
Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  a  stronger 

to  lean  on ; 
So  1  have  come  to  you  now,  with  an   offer,  and 

proffer  of  marriage 
Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Standish 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth  !  " 

Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dexterous 

writer  of  letters, — 

DJd  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  arraj'-it  in  beau 
tiful  phrases, 
But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it 

out  like  a  school-boy ; 
Even  the  Captain  himself  could  hardly  have  said 

it  more  bluntly. 
Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla  the 

Puritan  maiden 
Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated  with 

wonder, 
Feeling  his  words  like  a  Slow,  that  stunned  her 

and  rendered  her  speechless  ; 
Till  at  length    she    exclaimed,  interrupting  the 

ominous  silence  : 
"If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very 

eager  to  wed  me, 
Why  does  he  not  come  himself,   and  take    the 

trouble  to  woo  me  ? 
If  I  am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely  am  not 

worth  the  winning  !  " 


Then  John  Alden  began  explaining  and  smooth 
ing  the  matter, 

Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the  Cap 
tain  was  busy, — 

Had  no  time  for  such  things  ; — such  things  !  the 
words  grating  harshly 

Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla  ;  and  swift  as  a  flash 
she  made  answer : 

' '  Has  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you  call  it,  be 
fore  he  is  married, 

Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it,  after 
the  wedding  ? 

That  is  the  way  with  you  men  ;  you  don't  under 
stand  us,  you  cannot. 

When  you  have  made  up  your  minds,  after  think 
ing  of  this  one  and  that  one, 

Choosing,  selecting,  rejecting,  comparing  one 
with  another, 

Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with  abrupt 
and  sudden  avowal, 

And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant  perhaps, 
that  a  woman 

Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she  never 
suspected. 

Does  not  attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to  which 
you  have  been  climbing. 

This  is  not  right  nor  just :  for  surely  a  woman's 
affection 

Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for  only 
the  asking. 

When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only  says  it, 
but  shows  it. 

Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  he  only  showed 
that  he  loved  me, 

Even  this  captain  of  yours — who  knows  ? — at 
last  might  have  won  me, 

Old  and  rough  as  he  is  ;  but  now  it  never  can 
happen." 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the  words 
of  Priscilla, 

Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining,  per 
suading,  expanding ; 

Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his  bat 
tles  in  Flanders, 

How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen  to 
suffer  affliction, 

How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made  him 
Captain  of  Plymouth ; 

He  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his  pedi 
gree  plainly 

Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall,  in  Lan 
cashire,  England, 

Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grandson  of 
Thurston  de  Standish  ; 

Heir  nnto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely 
defrauded, 

Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his  crest  a 
cock  argent 

Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  blazon. 

He  was  a  man  of  honor,  of  noble  and  generous 
nature ; 

Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly  ;  she  knew 
how  during  the  winter 

He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as  gentle 
as  woman's ; 

Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny  it, 
and  headstrong, 

Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and 
placable  always, 

Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he  was 
little  of  stature ; 

For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous,  courtly, 
courageous ; 

Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman  in 
England, 

Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the  wife 
of  Miles  Standish ! 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple 
and  eloquent  language. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


157 


Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of 
his  rival. 

Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes  over 
running  with  laughter, 

Said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Why  don't  you 
speak  for  yourself,  John  V  " 


IV. 


JOHN  ALDEN. 

INTO  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and  be 
wildered, 

Bushed  like  a  man  insane,  and  wandered  alone 
by  the  sea-side  ; 

Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared  his  head 
to  the  east-wind, 

Cooling  his  heated  brow,  and  the  fire  and  fever 
within  him. 

Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyptical 
splendors, 

Sank  the  City  of  God,  in  the  vision  of  John  the 
Apostle, 

So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jasper,  and 
sapphire, 

Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets  up 
lifted 

Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel  who 
measured  the  city. 

"Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East !  "  he  exclaimed 
in  his  wild  exultation, 

"Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East,  from  the  caves 
of  the  misty  Atlantic  ! 

Blowing  o'er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measureless 
meadows  of  sea- grass, 

Blowing  o'er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottos  and 
gardens  of  ocean  ! 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning  fore 
head,  and  wrap  me 

Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the  fever 
within  me  !  " 

Like  an   awakened    conscience,    the   sea  was 

moaning  and  tossing, 
Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable  sands 

of  the  sea-shore. 
Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tumult  of 

passions  contending  ; 
Love  triumphant  and  crowned,    and   friendship 

wounded  and  bleeding, 

Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate  plead 
ings  of  duty  ! 
"  Is  it  my  fault,"  he  said,  "that  the  maiden   has 

chosen  between  us  ? 
Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed, — my  fault  that  I  am 

the  victor  ?  " 
Then  within  him  there  thundered  a  voice,  like  the 

voice  of  the  Prophet : 
"  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  !  " — and  he  thought 

of  David's  transgression, 
Bathsheba's  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend  in   the 

front  of  the  battle  ! 
Shame  and  confusion  of  guilt,  and  abasement  and 

self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed  him  at  once  ;  and  he  cried   in   the 

deepest  contrition  : 

"It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  !  It  is  the  tempta 
tion  of  Satan  ! " 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,  he  looked  at  the  sea, 
and  beheld  there 

Dimly  the  shadowy  form  of  the  May  Flower  rid 
ing  at  anchor, 

Rocked  on  the  rising  tide,  and  ready  to  sail  on 
the  morrow  ; 

Heard  the  voices  of  men  through  the  mist,  the 
rattle  of  cordage 

Thrown  on  the  deck,  the  shouts  of  the  mate,  and 
the  sailors'  "Ay,  ay,  Sir  !  " 


Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,  in  the   dripping 

air  of  the  twilight. 
Still  for  a   moment   he   stood,  and   listened,  and 

stared  at  the  vessel, 
Then    went   hurriedly  on,  as  one  who,  seeing  a 

phantom, 
Stops,    then   quickens  his  pace,  and  follows   the 

beckoning  shadow. 
"  Yes,  it  is  plain  to  me  now,"  he  murmured  ;  "  the 

hand  of  the  Lord  is 

Leading  me  out  of  the  land  of  darkness,  the  bond 
age  of  eiTor, 
Through  the  sea,  that  shall  lift  the   walls  of   its 

waters  around  me, 
Hiding  me, cutting  me  off,  from  the  cruel  thoughts 

that  pursue  me. 
Back  will  1  go  o'er  the  ocean,  this  dreary  land 

will  abandon, 
Her  whom  I  may  not  love,  and   him  whom  my 

heart  has  offended. 

Better  to  be  in  my  grave  in  the  green  old  church 
yard  in  England, 
Close  by  my  mother's  side,  and  among  the  dust  of 

my  kindred  ; 
Better   be   dead   and   forgotten,    than  living   in 

shame  and  dishonor ! 
Sacred  and  safe  and  unseen,  in  the  dark   of   the 

narrow  chamber 
With  me  my  secret  shall  lie,  like   a  buried  jewel 

that  glimmers 
Bright  on  the  hand  that  is  dust  in  the   chambers 

of  silence  and  darkness, — 
Yes,  as  the  marriage  ring  of     the   great   espousal 

hereafter  !  " 


Thus  as  he  spake,  he  turned,  in  the  strength  of 

his  strong  resolution, 
Leaving  behind  him  the  shore,  and  hurried  along 

in  the  twilight, 
Through  the  congenial  gloom  of  the  forest  silent 

and  sombre, 
Till  he  beheld  the  lights  in  the  seven  houses  of 

Plymouth, 
Shining  like  seven  stars  in  the  dusk  and  mist  of 

the  evening. 

Soon  he  entered  his  door,  and  found  the  redoubt 
able  Captain 
Sitting  alone,  and  absorbed  in  the  martial  pages 

of  Caesar, 
Fighting   some   great   campaign  in  Hainault  or 

Brabant  or  Flanders. 
"Long  have  you  been  on  your  errand,"  he  said 

with  a  cheery  demeanor, 
Even  as  one  who  is  waiting  an  answer,  and  fears 

not  the  issue. 
u  Not  far  off  is  the  house,  although  the  woods  are 

between  us ; 
But  you  have  lingered  so  long,  that  while  you 

were  going  and  coming 

I  have  fought  ten  battles  and  sacked  and  demol 
ished  a  city. 
Come,  sit  down,  and  in  order  relate  to  me  all  that 

has  happened." 

Then  John  Alden  spake,  and  related  the  won 
drous  adventure, 

From  beginning  to  end.  minutely,  just  as  it  hap 
pened  ; 

How  he  had  seen  Priscilla,  and  how  he  had  sped 
in  his  courtship, 

Only  smoothing  a  little,  and  softening  down  her 
refusal. 

But  when  he  come  at  length  to  the  words  Priscilla 
had  spoken, 

Words  so  tender  and  cruel:  "Why  don't  you 
speak  for  yourself,  John  ?  " 

Up  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  stamped 
on  the  floor,  till  his  armor 

Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a  sound 
of  sinister  omen. 


158 


All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a  sudden 
explosion, 

E'en  as  a  hand-grenade,  that  scatters  destruction 
around  it. 

Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud:  "John  Alden! 
you  have  betrayed  me  ! 

Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend  !  have  supplant 
ed,  defrauded,  betrayed  me ! 

One  of  my  ancestors  ran  his  sword  through  the 
heart  of  Wat  Tyler ; 

Who  shall  prevent  me  from  running  my  own 
through  the  heart  of  a  traitor  ! 

Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a  trea 
son  to  friendship ! 

You,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  I  cherished 
and  loved  as  a  brother ; 

You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk  at  my 
cup,  to  whose  keeping 

I  have  intrusted  my  honor,  my  thoughts  the  most 
sacred  and  secret, — 

You  too,  Brutus  !  ah  woe  to  the  name  of  friend 
ship  hereafter  ! 

Brutus  was  Caesar's  friend,  and  you  were  mine,  but 
henceforward 

Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war,  and 
implacable  hatred  ! " 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  strode 

about  in  the  chamber, 
Chafing  and  choking  with  rage ;  like  cords  were 

the  veins  on  his  temples. 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a  man  appeared  at 

the  doorway, 
Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a  message  of  urgent 

importance, 
Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  incursions 

of  Indians ! 
Straightway  the  Captain  paused,  and,   without 

further  question  or  parley, 
Took  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  sword  with  its 

scabbard  of  iron, 
Buckled  the  belt  round  his  waist,  and,  frowning 

fiercely,  departed. 
Alden  was  left  alone.     He  heard  the  clank  of  the 

scabbard 
Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  away  in 

the  distance. 
Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked  forth 

into  the  darkness, 
Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that  was  hot 

with  the  insult, 
Lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and,  folding  his 

hands  as  in  childhood, 
Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father  who 

seeth  in  secret. 

Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode  wrath 
ful  away  to  the  council, 

Found  it  already  assembled,  impatiently  waiting 
his  coming ; 

Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave  in 
deportment, 

Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest 
to  heaven, 

Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent  Elder 
of  Plymouth. 

God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the  wheat 
for  this  planting. 

Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed  of 
a  nation ; 

So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the  faith  of 
the  people  ! 

Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  attitude 
stern  and  defiant, 

Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and  ferocious 
in  aspect ; 

While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying  unop 
ened  a  Bible, 

Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded, 
printed  in  Holland, 


And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a  rattle 
snake  glittered, 

Filled,  like  a  quiver,  with  arrows ;  a  signal  and 
challenge  of  warfare, 

Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with  arrowy 
tongues  of  defiance. 

This  Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered,  and 
heard  them  debating 

What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile  mes 
sage  and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  suggest 
ing,  objecting ; 

One  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice  of 
the  Elder, 

Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least  were 
.  converted, 

Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but 
Christian  behavior ! 

Then  out  spake  Miles  Standish,  the  stalwart  Cap 
tain  of  Plymouth, 

Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice  was 
husky  with  anger, 

"What!  do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk 
and  the  water  of  roses  ? 

Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your  howitzer 
planted 

There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to  shoot 
red  devils  ? 

Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood  by  a 
savage 

Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from  the 
mouth  of  the  cannon ! " 

Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent  Elder 
of  Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  irreverent 
language : 

uNot  so  thought  Sainfc  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other 
Apostles ; 

Not  from  the  cannon's  mouth  were  the  tongues 
of  fire  they  spake  with  !  " 

But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the  Cap 
tain, 

Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus  contin 
ued  discoursing : 

"Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right  it 
pertaineth 

War  is  a  terrible  trade ;  but  in  the  cause  that  is 
righteous, 

Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder ;  and  thus  I  answer 
the  challenge  !  " 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,  with  a  sud 
den,  contemptuous  gesture, 

Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with  pow 
der  and  bullets 

Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to  the 
savage, 

Saying,  in  thundering  tones:  "Here,  take  it! 
this  is  your  answer  !  " 

Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the  glisten 
ing  savage, 

Bearing  the  serpent's  skin,  and  seeming  himself 
like  a  serpent, 

Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the 
depths  of  the  forest 


V. 


THE   SAILING   OF   THE   MAT  FLOWER. 

JUST  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  up 
rose  from  the  meadows, 

There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the  slumbering 
village  of  Plymouth ; 

Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order  im 
perative,  ' '  Forward  !  " 

Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a'  tramp  of  feet,  and 
then  silence. 

Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out  of 
the  village. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OP  MILES  STANDISH. 


159 


Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of  his 
valorous  army, 

Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok,  friend 
of  the  white  men, 

Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden  revolt 
of  the  savage. 

Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty 
men  of  King  David  ; 

Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in  God 
and  the  Bible, — 

Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midianites  and 
Philistines. 

Over  them  gleamed  far  off  the  crimson  banners  of 
morning ; 

Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried  bil 
lows,  advancing, 

F^red  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order  re 
treated. 


Many  a  mile  had  they  marched,  when  at  length 

the  village  of  Plymouth 
Woke  from   its   sleep,   and  arose,    intent  on  its 

manifold  labors. 
Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft ;  and  slowly  the  smoke 

from  the  chimneys 
Rose  over  roofs  of  thatch,  and  pointed  steadily 

eastward ; 
Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused  and 

talked  of  the  weather, 
Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was  blowing 

fair  for  the  May  Flower  ; 
Talked  of  their  Captain's  departure,  and  all  the 

dangers  that  menaced, 
He   being  gone,  the  town,  and  what   should  be 

done  in  his  absence. 
Merrily  sang  the  birds,  and  the  tender  voices  of 

women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares  of  the 

household. 

Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows  re 
joiced  at  his  coming ; 
Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of  the 

mountains  ; 
Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  May  Flower  riding  at 

anchor, 
Battered  and    blackened    and  worn  by   all    the 

storms  of  the  winter. 

Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and  flap 
ping  her  canvas, 
Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the  hands 

of  the  sailors. 
Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the 

ocean, 
Darted   a   puff  of  smoke,   and   floated  seaward; 

anon  rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon's  roar,  and 

the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal-gun  of 

departure  ! 
Ah  !  but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts  of 

the  people  ! 
Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was  read 

from  the  Bible, 

Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in  fer 
vent  entreaty  ! 
Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth  the 

Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 
Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying  down 

to  the  sea-shore, 
Eager  with   tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the 

May  Flower, 
Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaving  them 

here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.     All  night 

he  had  lain  without  slumber, 
Turning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and  unrest 

of  his  fever. 
He  had  beheld  Miles  Standish,  who  came  back 

late  from  the  council, 


Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mutter 

and  murmur, 
Sometimes  it  seemed  a  prayer,  and  sometimes  it 

sounded  like  swearing. 
Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood  there  a 

moment  in  silence  ; 
Then  he  had  turned  away,  and  said  :   "I  will  not 

awake  him ; 
Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best ;  for  what  is  the  use 

of  more  talking  !  " 

Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw  him 
self  down  on  his  pallet, 
Dressed  as  he  was,  and  ready  to  start  at  the  break 

of  the  morning, — 
Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had  worn  in 

his  campaigns  in  Flanders,— 
Slept  as  a  soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac,  ready  for 

action. 
But  with  the   dawn   he  arose;    in  the  twilight 

Alden  beheld  him 
Put  on  his  corselet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest  of 

his  armor, 
Buckle    about    his    waist    his    trusty    blade    of 

Damascus, 
Take  from  the  corner  his  musket,  and  so  stride 

out  of  the  chamber. 
Often  the   heart  of  the  youth  had  burned  and 

yearned  to  embrace  him, 
Often   his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  imploring 

for  pardon  ; 
All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its  tender 

and  grateful  emotions  ; 
But  his   pride   overmastered   the  nobler  nature 

within  him, — 

Pride,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the  burn 
ing  fire  of  the  insult. 
So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger,  but 

spake  not, 
Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death, 

and  he  spake  not ! 
Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heard  what  the 

people  were  saying. 
Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with  Stephen  and 

Richard  and  Gilbert, 
Joined  in  the  morning  prayer,  and  in  the  reading 

of  Scripture, 
And,  with   the   others,    in  haste   went  hurrying 

down  to  the  sea-shore, 
Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been  to 

their  feet  as  a  doorstep 
Into   a  world   unknown, — the   corner-stone  of  a 

nation ! 

There  with  his  boat  was  the  Master,  already  a 

little  impatient 
Lest  he   should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind  might 

shift  to  the  eastward, 
Square-built,  hearty,  and  strong,  with  an  odor  of 

ocean  about  him, 
Speaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cramming 

letters  and  parcels 
Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages  mingled 

together 
Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was  wholly 

bewildered. 
Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot  placed 

on  the  gunwale, 
One  still  firm  on  the  rock,  and  talking  at  times 

with  the  sailors, 
Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and  eager 

for  starting. 
He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an  end  to 

his  anguish, 
Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter  than 

keel  is  or  canvas, 
Thinking  to   drown   in  the   sea  the  ghost  that 

would  rise  and  pursue  him. 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld  the  form 

of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious  of 

all  that  was  passing. 


160 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  divined 

his  intention, 

Fixed    with   a  look  so  sad,  so  reproachful,  im 
ploring,  and  patient, 
That  with  a  sudden  revulsion  his  heart  recoiled 

from  its  purpose, 
As  from  the   verge  of  a   crag,  where  one  step 

more  is  destruction. 
Strange  is  the   heart  of    man,   with  its  quick, 

mysterious  instincts ! 
Strange  is  the  life  of  man,  and  fatal  or  fated  are 

moments, 
Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of  the 

wall  adamantine  ! 
"Here  I  remain  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at 

the  heavens  above  him, 
Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scattered 

the  mist  and  the  madness, 

Wherein,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was  stagger 
ing  headlong. 
"Yonder  snow-white   cloud,    that  floats  in  the 

ether  above  me, 
Seems  like  a  hand  that  is  pointing  and  beckoning 

over  the  ocean. 
There  is  another  hand,  that  is  not  so  spectral  and 

ghost-like, 
Holding  me,  drawing  me  back,  and  clasping  mine 

for  protection. 
Float,  O  hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in  the 

ether  ! 
Roll  thyself  up  like  a  fist,  to  threaten  and  daunt 

me ;  I  heed  not 
Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any  omen  of 

evil ! 
There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure  and  so 

wholesome, 
As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that  is 

pressed  by  her  footsteps. 
Here  for  her  sake  will  I  stay,  and  like  an  invisible 

presence 
Hover  around  her  forever,  protecting,  supporting 

her  weakness ; 
Yes !    as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped  on 

this  rock  at  the  landing, 
So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the  last 

at  the  leaving !  " 

Meanwhile  the  Master  alert,  but  with  dignified 
air  and  important, 

Scanning  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and  the  wind 
and  the  weather, 

Walked  about  on  the  sands,  and  the  people 
crowded  around  him 

Saying  a  few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his  care 
ful  remembrance. 

Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were 
grasping  a  tiller, 

Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved  off 
to  his  vessel, 

Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry  and 
flurry, 

Glad  to  be  gone  from  a  land  of  sand  and  sick 
ness  and  sorrow, 

Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of  nothing 
but  Gospel ! 

Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last  fare 
well  of  the  Pilgrims. 

O  strong  hearts  and  true  !  not  one  went  back  in 
the  May  Flower ! 

No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his  hand  to 
this  ploughing ! 

Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts  and  songs 

of  the  sailors 
Heaving  the  windlass  round,    and  hoisting  the 

ponderous  anchor. 
Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set  to 

the  west-wind, 
Blowing  steady  and  strong ;  and  the  May  Flower 

sailed  from  the  harbor, 


Rounded  the  point  of   the   Gurnet,  and  leaving 

far  to  the  southward 
Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the   Field  of   the 

First  Encounter, 
Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood  for  the 

open  Atlantic, 
Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swelling 

hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  receding  sail 

of  the  vessel, 
Much  endeared  to  them  all,  as  something  living 

and  human ; 
Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  wrapt  in  a 

vision  prophetic, 
Baring  his   hoary   head,  the  excellent  Elder  of 

Plymouth 
Said,    "  Let  us   pray  !  "   and  they  prayed,    and 

thanked  the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the 

rocks,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat  on  the  hill   of 

death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join  in 

the  prayer  that  they  uttered. 
Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge  of 

the  ocean 
Gleamed  the  departing  sail,  like  a  marble  slab  in 

a  graveyard ; 

Buried  beneath  it  lay  forever  all  hope  of  escaping. 
Lo  !  as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the  form 

of  an  Indian, 
Watching  them  from  the  hill ;    but  while   they 

spake  with  each  other, 
Pointing   with   outstretched  hands,  and   saying, 

"  Look  !  "  he  had  vanished. 

So  they  returned  to  their  homes ;   but  Alden  lin 
gered  a  little, 
Musing  alone  on    the  shore,   and  watching  the 

wash  of  the  billows 
Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle  and 

flash  of  the  sunshine, 
Like  the  spirit  of  God,  moving  visibly  over   the 

waters. 


VI. 


PRISCILLA. 

THUS  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by  the 
shore  of  the  ocean, 

Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of 
Priscilla ; 

And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw  to 
itself,  like  the  loadstone, 

Whatsoever  it  touches,  by  subtile  laws  of  its 
nature, 

Lo  !  as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscilla  was  stand 
ing  beside  him. 

"  Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not  speak 
to  me  ?  "  said  she. 

' '  Am  I  so  much  to  blame,  that  yesterday,  when 
you  were  pleading 

Warmly  the  cause  of  another,  my  heart,  impuls 
ive  and  wayward, 

Pleaded  your  own,  and  spake  out,  forgetful  per 
haps  of  decorum  ? 

Certainly  you  can  forgive  me  for  speaking  so 
frankly,  for  saying 

What  I  ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I  can 
never  unsay  it  ; 

For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the  heart  is 
so  full  of  emotion, 

That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its  depths 
like  a  pebble 

Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and  its 
secret, 

Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never  be 
gathered  together. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


161 


Yesterday   I  was   shocked,  when  I    heard  you 

.  speak  of  Miles  Standish, 

Praising  his  virtues,  transforming   his   very  de 
fects  into  virtues, 
Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even  his 

fighting  in  Flanders, 
As  if  by  fighting  alone  you  could   win  the    heart 

of  a  woman, 

Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in  exalt 
ing  your  hero. 

Therefore  I  spake  as  I  did,  by  an  irresistible  im 
pulse. 
You  will  forgive  me,  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  the 

friendship  between  us, 
Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so  easily 

broken ! " 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  scholar,  the 

friend  of  Miles  Standish  : 
"I  was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself  alone  I 

was  angry, 
Seeing  how  badly  I  managed  the  matter  I  had  in 

my  keeping." 
"  No ! "    interrupted    the  maiden,    with  answer 

prompt  and  decisive ; 
"No;  you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speaking   so 

frankly  and  freely. 
It  was  wrong,  I  acknowledge  ;  for  it  is  the  fate  of 

a  woman 
Long   to   be    patient   and   silent,  to   wait  like  a 

ghost  that  is  speechless. 
Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell  of 

its  silence. 
Hence   is  the   inner  life   of   so  many   suffering 

women 
Sunless  and    silent   and   deep,  like  subterranean 

rivers 
Running   through  caverns  of   darkness,  unheard, 

unseen,  and  unfruitful. 
Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  endless  and 

profitless  murmurs." 
Thereupon    answered    John   Alden,    the    young 

man,  the  lover  of  women  : 
"  Heaven   forbid   it,  Priscilla ;    and   truly    they 

seem  to  me  always 
More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered   the 

garden  of  Eden, 
More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through  deserts  of 

Havilah  flowing. 
Filling   the   land    with   delight,    and    memories 

sweet  of  the  garden  !  " 
"Ah,  by  these  words,  I  can  see,"  again  interrupted 

the  maiden, 
"  How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for  what 

I  am  saying. 
When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain  and 

with  secret  misgiving, 
Frankly    I   speak  to   you,  asking   for    sympathy 

only  and  kindness, 
Straightway    you   take   up   my  words,  that   are 

plain  and  direct  and  ir  earnest, 
Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and  answer 

with  flattering  phrases. 
This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is   not  true  to   the 

best  that  is  in  you  ; 
For  I  know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel   that   your 

nature  is  noble, 
Lifting  mine  up   to   a   higher,  a  more  ethereal 

level. 
Therefore   I   value  your  friendship,    and  feel  it 

perhaps  the  more  keenly 
If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I  am  only  as  one 

among  many, 

If  you  make  use  of  those   common   and  compli 
mentary  phrases 
Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and   speaking 

with  women, 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not   as  in 
sulting." 

Mate  and  amazed  was  Alden  ;  and  listened  and 
looked  at  Priscilla, 
11 


Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair,  more 

divine  in  her  beauty. 
He  who    but  yesterday   pleaded   so  glibly   the 

cause  of  another, 
Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and   seeking 

in  vain  for  an  answer. 

So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined  or  im 
agined 
What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made  him  so 

awkward  and  speechless. 
"  Let  us,  then,  be  what  we  are,  and  speak  what 

we  think,  and  in  all  things 
Keep    ourselves  loyal  to   truth,  and  the   sacred 

professions  of  friendship. 
It  is  no  secret  I  tell  you,  nor  am  I  ashamed  to  de 

dare  it : 
I  have  liked  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to  speak 

with  you  always. 
So  I  was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a  little  affronted 

to  hear  you 
Urge  me  to  marry   your  friend,  though   he  were 

the  Captain  Miles  Standish, 
For  I  must  tell  you  the  truth  :  much  more  to  me 

is  your  friendship 
Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he  twice  the 

hero  you  think  him." 
Then  she  extended   her  hand,  and  Alden,  who 

eagerly  grasped  it, 
Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were  aching 

and  bleeding  so  sorely, 
Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and   he   said, 

with  a  voice  full  of  feeling : 
"Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends;  and  of  all  who 

offer  you  friendship 
Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the   nearest 

and  dearest ! " 

Casting  a  farewell   look  at  the  glimmering  sail 

of  the  May  Flower, 
Distant,  but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  below  the 

horizon, 
Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a  strange, 

indefinite  feeling, 
That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left  them  alone 

in  the  desert. 
But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in  the  bless- 

ing  and  smile  of  the  sunshine, 
Lighter  grew  their  hearts,  and  Priscilla  said  very 

archly  : 

"  Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone  in  pur 
suit  of  the  Indians, 

Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be  com 
manding  a  household, 
You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all  that 

happened  between  you, 

When  you  returned  last  night,  and  said  how  un 
grateful  you  found  me." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told  her 

the  whole  of  the  story, — 
Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful  wrath 

of  Miles  Standish. 
Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said  between 

laughing  and  earnest, 
"He  is  a  little  chimney,   and  heated  hot  in 

moment ! " 
But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her  ho\» 

he  had  suffered, — 
How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that  day  in 

the  May  Flower, 
And  had  remained  for  her  sake,  on  hearing  the 

dangers  that  threatened, — 
All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said  with  a 

faltering  accent, 
"  Truly  I  thank  you  for  this  :  how  good  you  have 

been  to  me  always  !  " 

Thus,  as  a  pilgrim  devout,  who  toward  Jerusa 
lem  journeys, 

Taking  three  steps  in  advance,    and  one   reluc 
tantly  backward. 


162 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Urged    by  importunate  zeal,    and  withheld  by 

pangs  of  contrition  ; 
Slowly  but  steadily  onward,  receding  yet  ever 

advancing, 
Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy  Land 

of  his  longings, 
Urged  by  the  fervor  of  love,  and  withheld  by  re 

morseful  misgivings. 


VII. 

THE  MARCH  OF  MILES   STANDISH. 

MEANWHILE    the   stalwart  Miles  Standish  was 

marching  steadily  northward, 
"Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and  along 

the  trend  of  the  sea-shore, 
All  day  long,  with  hardly  a  halt,  the  fire  of  his 

anger 
Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sulphurous 

odor  of  powder 
Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all  the 

scents  of  the  forest. 
Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  he  revolved 

his  discomfort  ; 
He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy  victories 

always, 
Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed  to  scorn 

by  a  maiden,  \ 

Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the  friend 

whom  most  he  had  trusted  ! 
Ah  !  't  was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he  fretted 

and  chafed  in  his  armor  ! 

"I  alone  am  to  blame,"  he  muttered,    "for 

mine  was  the  folly. 
What  has  a  rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim  and 

gray  in  the  harness, 
Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with  the 

wooing  of  maidens  ? 
'T  was  but  a  dream,  —  let  it  pass,  —  let  it  vanish 

like  so  many  others  ! 
What  I  thought  was  a  flower,  is  only  a  weed,  and 

is  worthless  ; 
Out  of  my  heart  will  I  pluck  it,  and  throw  it 

away,  and  henceforward 
Be  but  a  fighter  of  battles,  a  lover  and  wooer  of 

dangers  !  " 
Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  defeat 

and  discomfort, 
While  he  was  marching  by  day  or  lying  at  night 

in  the  forest, 
Looking  up  at  the  trees,  and  the  constellations 

beyond  them. 

After  a  three  days'  march  he  came  to  an  Indian 

encampment 
Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a  meadow,  between  the 

sea  and  the  forest  ; 
Women  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  the  warriors, 

horrid  with  war-paint, 
Seated  about  a  fire,  and  smoking  and  talking  to 

gether  ; 
Who,  when  they  saw  from  afar  the  sudden  ap 

proach  of  the  white  men, 
Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and  sabre 

and  musket, 
Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two,  from 

among  them  advancing, 
Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him  furs 

as  a  present  ; 
Friendship  was  in  their  looks,  but  in  their  hearts 

there  was  hatred. 
Braves   of   the  tribe  were  these,    and   brothers 

gigantic  in  stature, 
Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible  Og,  king 

of  Bashan  ; 
One  was  Pecksuot  named,   and  the   other  was 

called  Wattawamat. 


Round  their  necks  were  suspended  their  knives 

in  scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,    trenchant    knives,    with   points    as 

sharp  as  a  needle. 
Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were  cunning 

and  ciafty. 
"  Welcome,   English !  "   they  said, — these  words 

they  had  learned  from  the  traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter  and 

chaffer  for  peltries. 
Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to  parley 

with  Standish, 
Through  his  guide  and  interpreter,   Hobomok, 

friend  to  the  white  man, 
Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly  for 

muskets  and  powder, 
Kept  by  the  white  man,  they  said,   concealed, 

with  the  plague,  in  his  cellars, 
Ready  to  be  let  loose,  and  destroy  his  brother  the 

red  man ! 
But  when  Standish  refused,  and  said  he  would 

give  them  the  Bible, 
Suddenly   changing    their  tone,    they  began  to 

boast  and  to  bluster. 
Then  Wattawamat    advanced  with  a  stride   in 

front  of  the  other, 
And,  with   a  lofty  demeanor,    thus   vauntingly 

spake  to  the  Captain  : 
"  Now  Wattawamat  can  see,  by  the  fiery  eyes  of 

the  Captain, 
Angry  is  he  in  his  heart ;   but  the  heart  of  the 

brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the  sight.     He  was  not  born  of  a 

woman, 
But  on  a  mountain,  at  night,  from  an  oak-tree 

riven  by  lightning, 
Forth  he  sprang  at  a  bound,  with  all  his  weapons 

about  him, 
Shouting,  '  Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with  the 

brave  Wattawamat  ? ' " 
Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whetting  the 

blade  on  his  left  hand, 
Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a  woman's  face  on  the 

handle, 

Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of  sinis 
ter  meaning : 
1 '  I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of  a  man 

on  the  handle  ; 
By  and  by  they  shall  marry ;  and  there  will  be 

plenty  of  children  !  " 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self -vaunting,  in 
sulting  Miles  Standish : 

While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife  that 
hung  at  his  bosom, 

Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plunging  it 
back,  as  he  muttered, 

"By  and  by  it  shall  see;  it  shall  eat;  ah,  ha! 
but  shall  speak  not ! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men  have 
sent  to  destroy  us  ! 

He  is  a  little  man ;  let  him  go  and  work  with  the 
women !  " 

Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces  and 

figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to  tree  in 

the  forest, 
Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set  on 

their  bow-strings, 
Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer  the  net 

of  their  ambush. 
But  undaunted   he   stood,    and  dissembled  and 

treated  them  smoothly ; 
So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in  the 

days  of  the  fathers. 
But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast,  the 

taunt,  and  the  insult, 
All  the  hot  blood  of  his  race,  of  Sir  Hugh  and  of 

Thurston  de  Standish, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


163 


Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in  the 

veins  of  his  temples. 

Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and,  snatch 
ing  his  knife  from  its  scabbard, 
Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  backward, 

the  savage 

(Tell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiendlike  tierce- 
ness  upon  it. 
Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the  awful 

sound  of  the  war-whoop, 
And,  like  a  flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling  wind 

of  December, 
Swift  and    sudden    and  keen  came  a  flight   of 

feathery  arrows. 
Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the 

cloud  came  the  lightning, 
Out  of  the  lightning  thunder  ;  and  death  unseen 

ran  before  it. 
Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in  swamp 

and  in  thicket, 
Hotly  pursued  and  beset ;  but  their  sachem,  the 

brave  Wattawamat, 
Fled  not ;  he  was  dead.     Unswerving  and  swift 

had  a  bullet 
Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with  both 

hands  clutching  the  greensward, 
Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe  the 

land  of  his  fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the  war 
riors  lay,  and  above  them, 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok,  friend 
of  the  white  man. 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stalwart 
Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

"Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  courage,  his 
strength,  and  his  stature, — 

Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him  a  lit 
tle  man  ;  but  I  see  now 


Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speechless 
before  you  !  " 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won  by  the 

stalwart  Milts  Standish. 
When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to  the 

village  of  Plymouth, 
And  as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave 

Wattawamat 
Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at  once 

was  a  church  and  a  fortress, 
All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the  Lord, 

and  took  courage. 
Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this  spectre  of 

terror, 

Thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not  mar 
ried  Miles  Standish  ; 
Shrinking,    fearing    almost,   lest,    coming    home 

from  his  battles, 
He  should  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the  prize  and 

reward  of  his  valor. 


VIII. 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

MONTH  after  month  passed  away,  and  in  Autumn 

the  ships  of  the  merchants 
Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle  and 

corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace  ;  the  men  were  intent 

on  their  labors, 
Busy  with  hewing  and  building,  with  garden-plot 

and  with  merestead, 
Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the 

grass  in  the  meadows, 
Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the 

deer  in  the  forest. 


~^auMf 


Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the  grass  in  the  meadows. 


164 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


All  in  the  village  was  peace ;  but  at  times  the 

rumor  of  warfare 
Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehension 

of  danger. 
Bravely  the  stalwart  Standish  was  scouring  the 

land  with  his  forces, 
Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien 

armies, 
Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear  to  the 

nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the  re 
morse  and  contrition 
Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  passionate 

outbreak, 
Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the  rush 

of  a  river, 
Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter 

and  brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him  a  new 

habitation, 
Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough-hewn  from  the 

firs  of  the  forest. 
Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof  was 

covered  with  rushes ; 
Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  window-panes 

were  of  paper, 
Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain 

were  excluded. 
There  too  he  dug  a  well,  and  around  it  planted  an 

orchard  : 
Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of  the 

well  and  the  orchard. 
Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe  and 

secure  from  annoyance, 
Raghorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had  fallen  to 

Alden's  allotment 
Iu  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in  the 

night-time 
Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fragrant  by 

sweet  pennyroyal. 

Oft  when  his  labor  was  finished,  with  eager 

feet  would  the  dreamer 
Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the  woods 

to  the  house  of  Priscilla, 
Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  deceptions 

of  fancy. 

Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the  sem 
blance  of  friendship. 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned  the 

walls  of  his  dwelling  ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the 

soil  of  his  garden  ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in  his 

Bible  on  Sunday 
Praise  of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is  described 

in  the  Proverbs, — 
How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely  trust 

in  her  always, 
How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him  good, 

and  not  evil, 
How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax  and  work- 

eth  with  gladness, 
How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle  and  hojd- 

eth  the  distaff, 
How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  herself  or 

her  household, 

Knowing  her  household  are  clothed  with  the  scar 
let  cloth  of  her  weaving  ! 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon  in  the 

Autumn, 
Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching  her 

dexterous  fingers, 
As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that  of 

his  life  and  his  fortune, 
After  a  pause  in  their  talk,  thus   spake  to  the 

sound  of  the  spindle. 
"Truly,    Priscilla,"   he  said,    "when  I  see  you 

spinning  and  spinning, 


Never  idle  a  moment,  but  thrifty  and  thoughtful 
of  others, 

Suddenly    you    are    transformed,    are     visibly 
changed  in  a  moment ; 

You  are  no  longer  Priscilla,  but  Bertha  the  Beau 
tiful  Spinner." 

Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter 
and  swifter  ;  the  spindle 

Uttered  an   angry  snarl,  and  the  thread  snapped 
short  in  her  fingers  ; 

While   the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding  the 
mischief,  continued : 

"  You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner,  the 
queen  of  Helvetia ; 

She  whose  story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the  streets  of 
Southampton, 

Who,  as  she  rode  on  her  palfrey,  o'er  valley  and 
meadow  and  mountain, 

Ever   was   spinning    her  thread  from  a    distaff 
fixed  to  her  saddle. 

She   was   so  thrifty  and  good,    that  her  name 
passed  into  a  proverb. 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the  spinning- 
wheel  shall  no  longer 

Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill  its  cham 
bers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  how  it- 
was  in  their  childhood, 

Praising   the  good  old  times,  and  the  days  of 
Priscilla  the  spinner  !  " 

Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beautiful  Puri 
tan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him 
whose  praise  was  the  sweetest, 

Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy  skein  of 
her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flattering 
phrases  of  Alden  : 

"Come,  you  must  not  be  idle  ;  if  I  am  a  pattern 
for  housewives, 

Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the  model 
of  husbands. 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I  wind  it, 
ready  for  knitting ; 

Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fashions 
have  changed  and  the  manners, 

Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old 
times  of  John  Alden  !  " 

Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on  his 
hands  she  adjusted,  . 

He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms  ex 
tended  before  him, 

She   standing    graceful,   erect,  and  winding  the 
thread  from  his  fingars, 

Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  manner  of 
holding, 

Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  disentan 
gled  expertly 

Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares — for  how 
could  she  help  it?  " — 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve  in 
his  body. 

Lo !  in   the  midst  of  this  scene,  a  breathless 

messenger  entered, 
Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the  terrible  news 

from  the  village. 
Yes  ;  Miles  Standish  was  dead  ! — an  Indian  had 

brought  them  the  tidings, — 
Slain  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the  front 

of  the  battle, 
Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  off  with  the  whole 

of  his  forces  ; 
All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the  people 

be  murdered ! 
Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on  the 

hearts  of  the  hearers. 
Silent  and   statue-like   stood   Priscilla,  her  face 

looking  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms  uplifted 

in  horror ; 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


165 


But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb  of  the 

arrow 
Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck  his 

own,  and  had  sundered 
•Once  and  forever  the  bonds  that  held  him  bound 

as  a  captive, 
Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful  delight 

of  his  freedom, 
Mingled  with   pain   and   regret,   unconscious  of 

what  he  was  doing, 
Clasped,  almost  with  a  groan,  the  motionless  form 

of  Priscilla, 
Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  forever  his  own, 

and  exclaiming  : 
"Those  whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no  man 

put  them  asunder  !  " 

Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and  sepa 
rate  sources, 
Seeing  each  other  afar,   as  they  leap  from  the 

rocks,  and  pursuing 
Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing  nearer 

and  nearer, 
Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in 

the  forest ; 
So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  separate 

channels, 
Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving  and 

flowing  asunder, 
Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing  nearer  and 

nearer, 
Bushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the 

other. 


IX. 


TUB   WEDDING-DAY. 

FORTH  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from  the  tent 
of  purple  and  scarlet, 

Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in  his  gar 
ments  resplendent, 

Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light,  on  his 
forehead, 

Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells  and 
pomegranates. 

Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars  of  vapor 
beneath  him 

•Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at  his 
feet  was  a  laver ! 

This  was   the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla  the 

Puritan  maiden. 
Friends  were  assembled  together  ;  the  Elder  and 

Magistrate  also 
•Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and  stood 

like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 
One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with  the 

blessing  of  heaven. 
Simple  and  brief  was    the  wedding,  as  that  of 

Buth  and  of  Boaz. 
Softly  the  youth   and  the  maiden  repeated  the 

words  of  betrothal, 
Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in  the 

Magistrate's  presence, 
A.fter  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable  custom 

of  Holland. 
Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent  Elder 

of  Plymouth 
Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that  were 

founded  that  day  in  affection, 
Speaking   of  life   and  of  death,   and  imploring 

Divine  benedictions. 


Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her  face 
on  his  shoulder  ? 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  air, — a  bodiless,  spectral  illu 
sion  ? 

Is  it  a  ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come  to  for 
bid  the  betrothal  ? 

Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest  uninvited, 
unwelcomed  ; 

Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at  times 
an  expression 

Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm  heart 
hidden  beneath  them, 

As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack  of  the 
rain-cloud 

Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the  sun  by 
its  brightness. 

Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its  lips, 
but  was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting  in 
tention. 

But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the  prayer 
and  the  last  benediction, 

Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  beheld 
with  amazement 

Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Standish,  the 
Captain  of  Plymouth  ! 

Grasping  the  bridegroom's  hand,  he  said  with 
emotion,  ' '  Forgive  me  ! 

I  have  been  angry  and  hurt, — too  long  have  I 
cherished  the  feeling ; 

I  have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank  God  ! 
it  is  ended. 

Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in  the 
veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 

Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in  atoning 
for  error. 

Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish  the 
friend  of  John  Alden." 

Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom:  "Let  all 
be  forgotten  between  us, — 

All  save  the  dear,  old  friendship,  and  that  shall 
grow  older  and  dearer  !  " 

Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing,  saluted 
Priscilla, 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fashioned 
gentry  in  England, 

Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town  and  of 
country,  commingled. 

Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly  laud 
ing  her  husband. 

Then  he  said  with  a  smile:  "I  should  have  re 
membered  the  adage, — • 

If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must  serve  your 
self  ;  and  moreover, 

No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the  season 
of  Christmas  !  " 

Great  was  the  people's  amazement,  and  greater 
yet  their  rejoicing, 

Thus  to  behold  once  more  the  sunburnt  face  of 
their  Captain, 

Whom,  they  had  mourned  as  dead ;  and  they 
gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 

Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful  of  bride 
and  of  bridegroom. 

Questioning,  answering,  laughing,  and  each  inter 
rupting  the  other, 

Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite  over 
powered  and  bewildered, 

He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian  en 
campment, 

Than  come  again  to  a  wedding  to  which  he  had 
not  been  invited. 


Lo  !  when  the  service  was  ended,  a  form  ap-  Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth  and  stood 
peared  on  the  threshold,  with  the  bride  at  the  doorway, 

Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a  sombre  and  sorrowful  j  Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm  and 
figure  !  beautiful  morning. 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare  at  the  Touched  with  autumnal  tints,  but  lonely  and  sad 
strange  apparition  ?  in  the  sunshine, 


166 


PROMETHEUS. 


Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil  and 

privation  ; 
There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the  barren 

waste  of  the  sea-shore, 
There  the  familiar  fields,  the  groves  of  pine,  and 

the  meadows ; 
But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed  as  the 

Garden  of  Eden, 
Filled  with  the  presence  of  God,  whose  voice  was 

the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the  noise 

and  stir  of  departure, 

Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and  impa 
tient  of  longer  delaying, 
Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the  work  that 

was  left  uncompleted. 
Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,  amid  exclamations 

of  wonder, 
Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so  happy,  so 

proud  of  Priscilla, 
Brought  out  his   snow-white  bull,  obeying  the 

hand  of  its  master, 
Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring  in  its 

nostrils. 
Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cushion  placed 

for  a  saddle. 
She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the  dust 

and  heat  of  the  noonday  ; 
Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a  queen,  not  plod  along 

like  a  peasant. 
Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured  by  the 

others, 
Placing -her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot  in  the 

hand  of  her  husband, 


Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mounted  her 
palfrey. 

"  Nothing  is  wanting  now,"  he  said  with  a  smile, 
"  but  the  distaff'; 

Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my  beauti 
ful  Bertha  !  " 

Onward  the  bridal  procession  now  moved  to 

their  new  habitation, 
Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  conversing 

together. 
Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they  crossed 

the  ford  in  the  forest, 
Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a  dream 

of  love  through  its  bosom, 
Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths  of  the 

azure  abysses. 
Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the   sun  was 

pouring  his  splendors, 
Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from  branches 

above  them  suspended. 
Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the  balm  of 

the  pine  and  the  fir-tree, 
Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew  in  the 

valley  of  Eshcol. 
Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive,  pastoral 

ages, 
Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  recalling 

Rebecca  and  Isaac, 
Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beautiful 

always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  succes 
sion  of  lovers. 
So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  onward 

the  bridal  procession. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


.  .  come  i  gru  van  cantando  lor  lai. 
Facendo  in  aer  di  se  lunga  riga. 

DANTE. 


PROMETHEUS, 

OR    THE   POET'S    FORETHOUGHT. 

OF  Prometheus,  how  undaunted 
On  Olympus'  shining  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 
Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chanted, 
Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 

Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portals, 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 

Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals  ! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 

Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 

Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 

Then  the  vulture, — the  despairing 

Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a  symbol  painted 

Of  the  Poet,  Prophet,  Seer ; 
Only  those  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  with  grief  have  been  acquainted, 

Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

In  their  feverish  exultations, 

In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 
In  their  passionate  pulsations, 
In  their  words  among  the  nations, 
The  Promethean  fire  is  burning. 


Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailing, 

All  this  toil  for  human  culture  ? 
Through  the  cloud-rack,  dark  and  trailing 
Must  they  see  above  them  sailing 

O'er  life's  barren  crags  the  vulture  ? 

Such  a  fate  as  this  was  Dante's, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened  ; 
Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 
Nature's  priests  and  Corybantes, 

By  affliction  touched  and  saddened. 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 

That  around  their  memories  cluster, 
And,  on  all  their  steps  attendant, 
Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre  ! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 

Through  the  dreary  darkness  chanted  ; 
Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 
Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 

Words  that  whispered,  songs  that  haunted  ? 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 

All  the  quivering,  palpitating 
Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension, 
With  the  fervor  of  invention, 

With  the  rapture  of  creating ! 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE.— THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 


167 


Ah,  Prometheus  !  heaven-scaling  ! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing, 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 

Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian  ! 

Though  to  all  there  is  not  given 

Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavor, 
Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 
And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven 
All  the  hearts  of  men  forever  ; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  uiiblighted 

Honor  and  believe  the  presage, 
Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 
As  they  onward  bear  the  message  ! 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE  !  well  hast  thou  said, 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less  ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ; — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar  ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  aud  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept. 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern — unseen  before — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 


Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


THE    PHANTOM    SHIP. 

IN  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 

That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 

And  the  keen  and  frost}'  airs, 
That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"  O  Lord  !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure  " — 

Thus  prayed  the  old  divine — 
"  To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 

Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  !  " 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 

And  under  his  breath  said  he, 
"  This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty 

I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  !  " 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered  : — 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds. 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 
And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun  ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 

Each  said  unto  his  friend. 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 
He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


168 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 

And   through   the   window-panes,    on   floor  and 
panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  can 
non 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich    and    Romney,  Hastings,    Hithe,  and 
Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 


We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table,  than  the  hosts 

Invited  ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I  hear  ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is  ;  while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands  ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty  hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 


Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions,  The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 

Theircannon,  through  the  night,  Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defi-  i  Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and   vapors 


ance, 
The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their 
stations 

On  every  citadel ; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts-, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning   gun  from  the  black  fort's  embra 
sure, 

Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  nvall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar ; 
Ah  !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England  trem 
ble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'er  head ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


HAUNTED  HOUSES. 

ALL  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 


dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 
By  opposite  attractions  and  desires  ; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 
And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies  crowd 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night, — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this, 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and  bends, 
Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE. 

IN  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs  ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours  ? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers '? 

Who  shall  tell  us  ?     No  one  speaks ; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  ? — And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs, 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  ! 


THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST.— DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT. 


169 


THE   EMPEROR'S   BIRD'S-NEST. 

ONCE  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 
With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 

I  forget  in  what  campaign, 

Long  besieged,  in  mud  and  rain, 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 

Striding  with  a  measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the  weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went, 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 

Giving  their  impatience  vent, 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest,  they  spied  a  swallow. 

Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon's  crest, 
Found  on  hedge-rows  cast  and  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 

"  Sure  this  swallow  overhead 

Thinks  the  Emperor's  tent  a  shed. 
And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho  !  " 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 

Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 

Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 
Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest," 
Said  he  solemnly,  ''nor  hurt  her!  " 

Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest 

"  Golondrina  is  my  guest, 
'T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter  !  " 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a  shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quafted 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent. 
Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 

Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 

For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  "  Leave  it  standing  !  " 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  napping,  torn  and  tattered, 

Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 

Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Whioh  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke  ; 

'The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 

The   sombre   houses  hearsed  with   plumes   of 
smoke. 


Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 

Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white ; 

But  one    was   crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with 

flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way ; 

Then   said  I,    with   deep   fear  and  doubt  op 
pressed, 
"Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest ! " 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The    waters    sink    before    an     earthquake's 
shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 

And    now  returned    with   threefold     strength 
again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And  listened,    for  I   thought   I  heard    God's 
voice ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the  house  with 
light, 

"My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,"  he  said; 
And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 

On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'Twas  at  thy  door,  O  friend  !  and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath. 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine. 

Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin ; 

And   softly,   from  that    hushed    and    darkened 

room, 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 

All  is  of  God  !     If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 

The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and  loud, 

Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo  !  he  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his ; 

Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold  o'er; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this, 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door  ? 


DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT. 

IN  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  school-boy's  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
I  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 
And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 
Fell  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 


170 


THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT.— OLIVER  BASSELIN. 


Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 
Like  a  spirit  glorified, 
Pilled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 

Passed  like  music  through  my  brain ; 

Night  interpreted  to  me 

All  its  grace  and  mystery. 


THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT 
NEWPORT. 

How  strange  it  seems  !    These  Hebrews  in  their 
graves. 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 
Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 

At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down  ! 

The  trees  are  white  with  dust,   that  o'er  their 

sleep 
Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south-wind's 

breath, 

While  underneath  these  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial  place, 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown  down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's  base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes  ; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 
With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  for  he  created  Death  !  " 
The  mourner   said,    "and  Death  is  rest   and 
peace ; " 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

"  And  giveth  Life  that  nevermore  shall  cease." 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence  break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And  not  neglected  ;  for  a  hand  unseen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 
Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remembrance 
green. 

How  came  they  here  ?    What  burst  of  Christian 
hate, 

What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 
Drove  o'er  the  sea — that  desert  desolate — 

These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and  mire  ; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened  bread 
And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 

The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed. 

And  slaked  its  thirst  with  marah  of  their  tears. 

Anathema  maranatha  !  was  the  cry 
That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from  street  to 

street ; 

At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 
Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned  by  Chris 
tian  feet. 


Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with  them  through  the  world  where'er 

they  went ; 
Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the  sand, 

And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and  vast 
Of  patriarchs  and^>f  prophets  rose  sublime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read, 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah  !  what  once  has  been  shall  be  no  more  I 
The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 

Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 
And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 


OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

IN  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 

Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill. 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill, 
On  the  stone, 
These  words  alone  : 
"Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep. 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau  ; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 

Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 

Looked,  but  ah  !.  it  looks  no  more, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 

In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  till 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 
All  the  lovely  valley  seemed ; 
No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart  ; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 

Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 
Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 
The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH.— MY  LOST  YOUTH. 


171 


In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel ; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that,  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 
Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 
And  the  poet  heard  their  bells ; 
But  his  ryhmes 
Found  other  chimes, 
Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 
And  the  brotherhood  of  friars  ; 
Not  a  name 
Remains  to  fame, 
From  those  mouldering  days  of  old  ! 

But  the  poet's  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a  part ; 
Like  the  river,  swii't  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a  heart ; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill, 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH. 

UNDER  the  walls  of  Monterey 

At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say  : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith !  " 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread  ; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head  ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith ! " 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the  sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"  Take  good  aim  ;  I  am  ready  to  die  !" 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and  red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped ; 

Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead  ; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of  lead, 

And  they  only  scath 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain  ; 
"  O  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain  !  " 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 


His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

"Victor  Galbraith  !  " 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith  !  " 


MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill  ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil 

bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 

The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 

In  quiet  neighborhoods. 


172 


THE  ROPEWALK.— THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 


And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
11 A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    a,re    long,    long 
thoughts. " 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school -boy's  brain  ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 
And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts ; 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak  ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart 

weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known 

street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 


THE  ROPEWALK. 

IN  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 

Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door ; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane  ; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 


First  before  my  vision  pass  • 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands. 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well ; 
As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth  ; 
Ah  !  it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ! 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look ; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field ; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed  ; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless    sand; 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound,  • 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 

LEAFLESS  are  the  trees ;  their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of    coral 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 

From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire-light ; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine  tree 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them. 


CATAWBA  WINK— SANTA  FILOMENA. 


173 


By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful  faces, 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile-stone  ; 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it ; 
Hears   the  talking  flame,   the  answering  night- 
wind, 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not. 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city. 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 
Fill  our  rooms  with   paintings,  and  with  sculp 
tures, 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations  ! 


CATAWBA  WINE. 

Tins  song  of  mine 

Is  a  Song  of  the  Vine, 
To  be  sung  by  the  glowing  embers 

Of  wayside  inns. 

When  the  rain  begins 
To  darken  the  drear  Novembers. 

It  is  not  a  song 

Of  the  Scuppernong, 
From  warm  Carolinian  valleys, 

Nor  the  Isabel 

And  the  Muscadel 
That  bask  in  our  garden  alleye. 

Nor  the  red  Mustang, 

Whose  clusters  hang 
O'er  the  waves  of  the  Colorado, 

And  the  fiery  flood 

Of  whose  purple  blood 
Has  a  dash  of  Spanish  bravado. 

For  richest  and  best 

Is  the  wine  of  the  West. 
That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River ; 

Whose  sweet  perfume 

Fills  all  the  room 
With  a  benison  on  the  giver. 

And  as  hollow  trees 

Are  the  haunts  of  bees, 
Forever  going  and  coming ; 

So  this  crystal  hive 

Is  all  alive 
With  a  swarming  and  buzzing  and  humming. 


Very  good  in  its  way 

Is  the  Verzenay, 
Or  the  Sillery  soft  and  creamy  ; 

But  Catawba  wine 

Has  a  taste  more  divine, 
More  dulcet,  delicious,  and  dreamy. 

There  grows  no  vine 

By  the  haunted  Rhine, 
By  Danube  or  Guadalquivir, 

Nor  on  island  or  cape, 

That  bears  such  a  grape 
As  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River. 

Drugged  is  their  juice 

For  foreign  use, 
When  shipped  o'er  the  reeling  Atlantic, 

To  rack  our  brains 

With  the  fever  pains. 
That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 

To  the  sewers  and  sinks 

With  all  such  drinks, 
And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer  ; 

For  a  poison  malign 

Is  such  Borgia  wine, 
Or  at  best  but  a  Devil's  Elixir. 

While  pure  as  a  spring 

Is  the  wine  I  sing, 
And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it ; 

For  Catawba  wine 

Has  need  of  no  sign, 
No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it. 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 
The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 

To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed. 
On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 


SANTA  FILOMENA. 

WHENE'ER  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of    deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp, — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 


174 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE. 


As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH 
CAPE. 

A  LEAF  FROM  KING  ALFRED'S  OROSIUS. 

OTHERE,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Ofchere, 
His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak ; 

With  a  kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  on  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  knees, 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  seas. 

"  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me ; 
To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains ; 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

"  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward. 
From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 

If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 
More  than  a  month  would  you  sail. 

'  T  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 
With  sheep  and  swine  beside  ; 

I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 

Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 
And  ropes  of  walrus -hide. 

"  I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 

But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 
For  the  old  seafaring  men 
Came  to  me  now  and  thep. 

With  their  sagas  of  tue  seas  ; — 

"  Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
And  the  undiscovered  deep  ;  — 
O  I  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 

For  thinking  of  those  seas. 


"To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert, 

How  far  I  fain  would  know  ; 
So  at  last  I  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 
As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 

"  To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 

But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 

For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  three  days  more. 

"  The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 
And  northward  through  the  haze 
I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

"  And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 

Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 

"  The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 
The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 

And  the  sea-fog,  Iik6  a  ghost, 

Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 
But  onward  still  I  sailed. 

"  Four  days  1  steered  to  eastward, 

Four  days  without  a  night : 
Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  O  King, 

With  red  and  lurid  light." 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while  ; 
And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look, 

And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 

Till  the  King  listened  and  then 

Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 
/ 

"  And  now  the  land,"  said  Othere, 

"Bent  southward  suddenly, 
And  I  followed  the  curving  shore 
And  ever  southward  bore 

Into  a  nameless  sea,. 

"  And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 

The  narwhale,  and  the  seal ; 
Ha  !  't  was  a  noble  game  ! 
And  like  the  lightning's  flame 

Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

"  There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norseman  of  Helgoland ; 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand !  * 

Here  Alfred  the  Truth-Teller 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 

Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere  the  old  sea-captain 
Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 
Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 
His  tawny,  quivering  beard.     • 


DAYBREAK.— CHILDBEN.— SANDALPHON. 


175 


And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  tho  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 

"Behold  this  walrus-tooth  !  " 


DAYBREAK. 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake  !  it  is  the  day." 

It  is  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout  ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wings, 
And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  Chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  co_rn, 
"Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"Awake,  Obeli!  proclaim  the*hour." 

.It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet  !  in  quiet  lie." 


THE   FIFTIETH   BIRTHDAY   OF 
AGASSIZ. 

MAY  28,  1857. 

IT  was  fifty  year  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

Tiie  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying  :   "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee. " 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
Ske  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go. 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 


And  the  mother  at  home  says,   "Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  ; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  !  " 


CHILDREN. 

COME  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

For  1  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sun 
shine, 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow 
But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 

And  the  first  tail  of  the  snow. 

Ah  !  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more  ''. 

Wo  should  dread  the  desert  behind  ua 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood, — 

That  to  the  world  are  children  ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 
And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said  ; 
For  ye  are  living  poems. 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


SANDALPHON. 

HAVE  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old. 
In  the  L'jgonds  the  Rabbins  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 
Have  you  read  it,  — the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  V 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire% 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 


17S 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR.—  THE  CUMBERLAND. 


But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below ; — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer ; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 


It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know, — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show. 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore ; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden. 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


FLIGHT   THE   SECOND. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day. 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


ENCELADUS. 

UNDER  Mount  Etna  he  lies, 

It  is  sjumber,  it  is  not  death  ; 
For  he  struggles  at  times  to  arise, 
And  above  him  the  lurid  skies 

Are  hot  with  his  fiery  breath. 

The  crags  are  piled  on  his  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 
But  the  groans  of  his  wild  unrest, 
Though  smothered  and  half  suppressed, 
Are  heard,  and  he  is  not  dead. 

And  the  nations  far  away 

Are  watching  with  eager  eyes  ; 
They  talk  together  and  say, 
"  To-morrow,  perhaps  to-day, 

Enceladus  will  arise  !  " 

And  the  old  gods,  the  austere 

Oppressors  in  their  strength. 
Stand  aghast  and  white  with  fear 
At  the  ominous  sounds  they  hear, 

And  tremble,  and  mutter,  "At  length!" 

Ah  me  !  for  the  land  that  is  sown 

With  the  harvest  of  despair  ! 
Where  the  burning  cinders,  blown 
From  the  lips  of  the  overthrown 

Enceladus,  fill  the  air. 

Where  ashes  are  heaped  in  drifts 

Over  vineyard  and  field  and  town, 
Whenever  he  starts  and  lifts 
His  head  through  the  blackened  rifts 
Of  the  crags  that  keep  him  down. 

See,  see  !  the  red  light  shines  ! 

'T  is  the  glare  of  his  awful  eyes ! 
And  the  storm-wind  shouts  through  the  pines 
Of  Alps  and  of  Apennines, 

u  Enceladus,  arise !  " 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  w«j  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 


SNOW-FLAKES.— A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE.— WEARINESS. 


177 


The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Of  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  -terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  !  " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
Witli  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  witli  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

OUT  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shaken, 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  siient  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 
Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded, 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 

12 


A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 

0  GIFT  of  God  !     O  perfect  day  : 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play  ; 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 

Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be  ! 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  eve,ry  vein, 

1  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch' 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies  ; 
I  see  the  branches  downward  bent, 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sL" 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea  tn,  -sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleon, 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds  !  and  waft  through  all  the  rooms 
The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry-  blooms  ! 
Blow,  winds  !  and  bend  within  niy  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach  ! 

O  Life  and  Love  !     O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song  ! 
O  heart  of  man  !     canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  'i 


SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE. 

LABOR  with  what  zeal  we  will, 
Something  still  remains  undone, 

Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair, 

At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates, 

With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 
Like  a  mendicant  it  waits  ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  go  away  ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid ; 
By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  to-day  is  heavier  made  ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 
Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear, 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day. 

Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 
Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 

On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 


WEARINESS. 

O  LITTLE  feet !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load; 
I.  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road  ! 


178 


FATA  MORGANA.— THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER.— VOX  POPULI. 


O  little  hands  !  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask  ; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts  !  that  throb  and  beat 

With  puch  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Suab  limitless  and  strong  desires  ; 


Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 
Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O  little  souls  !  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears. 

How  lurid  looks  this  soil  of  mine ! 


FLIGHT   THE   THIRD. 


FATA  MORGANA. 

0  SWEET  illusions  of  Song, 
That  tempt  me  everywhere, 

In  the  lonely  fields,  and  the  throng 
Of  the  crowded  thoroughfare  ! 

1  approach,  and  ye  vanish  away, 
I  grasp  you,  and  ye  are  gone  ; 

But  ever  by  night  and  by  day, 
The  melody  soundeth  on, 

As  the  weary  traveller  sees 
In  desert  or  prairie  vast, 

Blue  lakes,  overhung  with  trees, 
That  a  pleasant  shadow  cast ; 

Fair  towns  with  turrets  high, 
And  shining  roofs  of  gold, 

That  vanish  as  he  draws  nigh, 
Like  mists  together  rolled, — 

So  I  wander  and  wander  along, 
And  forever  before  me  gleams 

The  shining  city  of  song, 
In  the  beautiful  land  of  dreams. 

But  when  I  would  enter  the  gate 
Of  that  golden  atmosphere, 

It  is  gone,  and  I  wander  and  wait 
For  the  vision  to  reappear. 


THE   HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 

EACH  heart  has  its  haxinted  chamber, 
Where  the  silent  moonlight  falls  ! 

On  the  floor  are  mysterious  footsteps. 
There  are  whispers  along  the  walls  ! 

And  mine  at  times  is  haunted 

By  phantoms  of  the  Past, 
As  motionless  as  shadows 

By  the  silent  moonlight  cast. 

A  form  sits  by  the  window, 

That  is  not  seen  by  day, 
For  as  soon  as  the  dawn  approaches 

It  vanishes  away. 

It  sits  there  in  the  moonlight, 

Itself  as  pale  and  still, 
And  points  with  its  airy  finger 

Across  the  window-sill. 

Without,  before  the  window, 

There  stands  a  gloomy  pine, 
Whose  boughs  wave  upward  and  downward 

As  wave  these  thoughts  of  mine. 


And  underneath  its  branches 
Is  the  grave  of  a  little  child, 

Who  died  upon  life's  threshold. 
And  never  wept  nor  smiled. 

What  are  ye,  O  pallid  phantoms  ! 

That  haunt  my  troubled  brain  ? 
That  vanish  when  day  approaches, 

And  at  night  return  again  ? 

What  are  ye,  O  pallid  phantoms  ! 

But  the  statues  without  breath, 
That  stand  on  the  bridge  overarching 

The  silent  river  of  death  ? 


THE  MEETING. 

AFTER  so  long  an  absence 

At  last  we  meet  again  : 
Does  the  meeting  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain  "i 

The  tree  of  life  has  been  shaken, 
And  but  few  of  us  linger  now, 

Like  the  Prophet's  two  or  three  berries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppermost  bough. 

We  cordially  greet  each  other 

In  the  old,  familiar  tone  ; 
And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say  it, 

How  old  and  gray  he  has  grown  ! 

We  speak  of  a  Merry  Christmas 
And  many  a  Happy  New  Year  ; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 

We  speak  of  friends  and  their  fortunes, 
And  of  what  they  did  and  said. 

Till  the  dead  alone  seem  living, 
And  the  living  alone  seem  dead. 

And  at  last  we  hardly  distinguish 
Between  the  ghosts  and  the  guests ; 

And  a  mist  and  shadow  of  sadness 
Steals  over  our  merriest  jests. 


VOX  POPULI. 

WHEN  Mazarvan,  the  Magician, 
Journeyed  westward  through  Cathay, 

Nothing  heard  he  bnt  the  praises 
Of  Badoura  on  his  way. 


THE  CASTLE-BUILDER.— FROM  THE  SPANISH  CANCIONEROS. 


179 


But  the  lessening  rumor  ended 
When  he  came  to  Khaledan, 

There  the  folk  were  talking  only 
Of  Prince  Camaralzaman. 

So  it  happens  with  the  poets  : 
Every  province  hath  its  own  ; 

Camaralzaman  is  famous 
Where  Badoura  is  unknown. 


THE  CASTLE-BUILDER. 

A  GENTLE  boy,  witli  soft  and  silken  locks, 
A  dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender  eyes, 

A  castle-builder,  with  his  wooden  blocks, 
And  towers  that  touch  imaginary  skies. 

A  fearless  rider  on  his  father's  knee. 
An  eager  listener  unto  stories  told 

At  the  Round  Table  of  the  nursery, 
Of  heroes  and  adventures  manifold. 

There  will  be  other  towers  for  thee  to  build  ; 

There  will  be  other  steeds  for  thee  to  ride  ; 
There  will  be  other  legends,  and  all  filled 

With  greater  marvels  and  more  glorified. 

Build  on,  and  make  thy  castles  high  and  fair, 
Rising  and  reaching  upward  to  the  skies  ; 

Listen  to  voices  in  the  upper  air. 

Nor  lose  thy  simple  faith  in  mysteries. 


CHANGED. 

FROM  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 

Where  of  old  the  mile-stone  stood, 
Now  a  stranger,  looking  down 
I  behold  the  shadowy  crown 
Of  the  dark  and  haunted  wood. 

Is  it  changed,  or  am  I  changed  ? 

Ah  !  the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I  ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 

By  the  years  that  intervene. 

Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 

Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun, 
But  alas  !  they  seem  to  me 
Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 
Not  the  tides  that  used  to  run. 


THE  CHALLENGE. 

I  HAVE  a  vague  remembrance 
Of  a  story,  that  is  told 

In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 
Or  chronicle  of  old. 

It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez 
Was  before  Zamora  slain, 

And  his  great  besieging  army 
Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 

Don  Diego  de  Ordonez 

Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 

And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 


All  the  people  of  Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 

As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 

The  living,  in  their  houses, 

And  in  their  graves,  the  dead  ! 

And  the  waters  of  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread  I 

There  is  a  greater  army, 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 
A  starving,  numberless  army, 

At  all  the  gates  of  life. 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 

And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 
Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  whenever  I  sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 

Amid  the  mirth  and  the  music 
I  can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 

Look  into  the  lighted  hall, 
And  wasted  hands  are  extended 

To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

For  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 

And  odors  fill  the  air  ; 
But  without  tht  re  is  cold  and  darkness, 

And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine, 

In  wind  and  cold  and  rain, 
Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  army, 

Lies  dead  upon  the  plain  ! 


THE    BROOK   AND   THE   WAVE. 

THE  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold  ! 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow 

Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 
And  has  filled* with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 

That  turbulent,  bitter  heart ! 


FROM    THE    SPANISH     CANCIONEROS. 
1. 

EYES  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful, 
Heart  so  full  of  care  and  cumber, 
I  was  lapped  in  rest  and  slumber, 
Ye  have  made  me  wakeful,  wistful ! 

In  this  life  of  labor  endless 

Who  shall  comfort  my  distresses  ? 

Querulous  my  soul  and  friendless 

In  its  sorrow  shuns  caresses. 

Ye  have  made  me,  ye  have  made  me 

Querulous  of  you,  that  care  not. 

Eyes  so   tristful,  yet  I  dare  not 

Say  to  what  ye  have  betrayed  me. 


180 


AFTERMATH.  — EPIMETHEUS. 


2. 

Some  day,  some  day, 
O  troubled  breast, 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

If  Love  in  thee 
To  grief  give  birth, 
Six  feet  of  earth 
Can  more  than  he  ; 
There  calm  and  free 
And  unoppressed 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

The  unattained 
In  life  at  last, 
When  life  is  passed, 
Shall  all  be  gained  ; 
And  no  more  pained, 
No  more  distressed, 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

3. 

Come,  O  Death,  so  silent  flying 
That  unheard  thy  coming  be, 
Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

For  thy  sure  approach  perceiving 
In  my  constancy  and  pain 
I  new  life  should  win  again, 
Thinking  that  I  am  not  living. 
So  to  me,  unconscious  lying, 
All  unknown  thy  coming  be, 
Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me . 

Unto  him  who  finds  thee  hateful, 
Death,  thou  art  inhuman  pain  ; 
But  to  me,  who  dying  gain, 
Life  is  but  a  task  ungrateful. 
Come,  then,  with  my  wish  complying, 
All  unheard  thy  coming  be, 
Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 


Glove  of  black  in  white  hand  bare, 
And  about  her  forehead  pale 
Wound  a  thin,  transparent  veil, 
That  doth  not  conceal  her  hair  ; 
Sovereign  attitude  and  air, 
Cheek  and  neck  alike  displayed, 
With  coquettish  charms  arrayed, 
Laughing  eyes  and  fugitive  ; — 
This  is  killing  men  that  live, 
'T  is  not  mourning  for  the  dead. 


AFTERMATH. 

WHEN  the  Summer  fields  are  mown, 
When  the  birds  are  fledged  and  flown, 

And  the  dry  leaves  strew  the  path; 
With  the  falling  of  the  snow, 
With  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 
Once  again  the  fields  we  mow 

And  gather  in  the  aftermath. 

Not  the  sweet,  new  grass  with  flowers 
Is  this  harvesting  of  ours ; 

Not  the  upland  clover  bloom  ; 
But  the  rowen  mixed  with  weeds, 
Tangled  tufts  from  marsh  and  meads, 
Where  the  poppy  drops  its  seeds, 

In  the  silence  and  the  gloom. 


EPIMETHEUS, 

OR    THE    POET'S    AFTEBTHOUGHT. 

HAVE  I  dreamed  ?  or  was  it  real, 

What  I  saw  as  in  a  vision, 
When  to  marches  hymeneal 
In  the  land  of  the  Ideal 

Moved  my  thought  o'er  Fields  Elysian  ? 

What !  are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round  me  ? 

These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 

That  with  dithyrambic  dances 
As  with  magic  circles  bound  me  ? 

Ah  !  how  cold  are  their  caresses  ! 

Pallid  cheeks,  and  haggard  bosoms ! 
Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
And  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 

Fall  the  hyacinthine  blossoms  ! 

O  my  songs  !  whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture  ! 

Children  of  my  golden  leisures  ! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture  ? 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous, 

When  they  came  to  me  unbidden ; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 
Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o'er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment !     Disillusion ! 

Must  each  noble  aspiration 
Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 
Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 

Lassitude,  renunciation  ? 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster. 

From  the  sun's  serene  dominions, 
Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster, 
In  swift  ruin  and  disaster, 

Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions  ! 

Sweet  Pandora  !  dear  Pandora  ! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 
Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee  ? 

No,  not  hate  thee  !  for  this  feeling 

Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 
Is  but  passionate  appealing, 
A  prophetic  whisper  stealing 

O'er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 

Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamor, 

Thou,  beloved,  never  leavest ; 
In  life's  discord,  strife,  and  clamor, 
Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour ; 

Him  of  Hope  thou  ne'er  bereavest. 

Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling  souls  by  thee  are  strengthened 
Clouds  of  fear  asunder  rifted, 
Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifted, 

Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  lengthened  ! 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

O,  my  Sibyl,  my  deceiver  ! 
For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer, 
And  the  unattained  seems  nearer, 

When  thou  fillest  my  heart  with  fever ! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces  ! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces,  • 

Where  no  foot  has,  left  its  traces  : 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither  ! 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


181 


TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE 


PRELUDE. 

THE   WAYSIDE   INN. 

ONE  Autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 

Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown, 

The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 

Gleamed  red  with  fire-light  through  the  leaves 

Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 

Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 

As  any  in  the  land  may  be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a  grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality , 

A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 

Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 

With  weather  stains  upon  the  wall, 

And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 

And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 

And  chimneys  huge,  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A  region  of  repose  it  seems, 

A  place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 

Remote  among  the  wooded  hills  ! 

For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 

Its  torch-race  scattering  smoke  and  gleeds  ; 

But  noon  and  night,  tho  panting  teams 

Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 

Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 

On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills. 

Across  the  road  the  barns  display 

Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay, 

Through  the  wide  doors  the  breezes  blow, 

The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro, 

And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 

The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 

Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a  gust 
Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 
And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 
A  moment,  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered  and  danced  their  dance  of  death, 
And  through  the  ancient  oaks  o'erhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

But  from  the  parlor  of  the  inn 

A  pleasant  murmur  smote  the  ear. 

Like  water  rushing  through  a  weir  : 

Oft  interrupted  by  the  din 

Of  laughter  and  of  loud  applause, 

And,  in  each  intervening  pause, 

The  music  of  a  violin. 

The  fire-light,  shedding  over  all 

The  splendor  of  its  ruddy  glow, 

Filled  the  whole  parlor  lai'ge  and  low  ; 

It  gleamed  on  wainscot  and  on  wall, 

It  touched  with  more  than  wonted  grace 

Fair  Princess  Mary's  pictured  face  ; 

It  bronzed  the  rafters  overhead, 

On  the  old  spinet's  ivory  keys 

It  played  inaudible  melodies, 

It  crowned  the  sombre  clock  with  flame, 

The  hands,  the  hours,  the  maker's  name 

And  painted  with  a  livelier  red 

The  Landlord's  coat-of-arms  again  ; 

And,  flashing  on  the  window-pane, 

Emblazoned  with  its  light  and  shade 

The  jovial  rhymes,  that  still  remain, 

Writ  near  a  century  ago, 

By  the  great  Major  Molineaux, 

Whom  Hawthorne  has  immortal  made. 


Before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood 
Erect  the  rapt  musician  stood  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 
His  head  upon  his  instrument, 
And  seemed  to  listen  till  he  caught 
Confessions  of  its  secret  thought, — 
The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  lament, 
The  exultation  and  the  pain  ; 
Then,  by  the  magic  of  his  art, 
He  soothed  the  throbbings  of  its  heart, 
And  lulled  it  into  peace  again. 

Around  the  fireside  at  their  ease 
There  sat  a  group  of  friends,  entranced 
With  the  delicious  melodies  ; 
Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down, 
To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak-trees. 
The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 
Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced, 
And,  though  of  different  lands  and  speech, 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased  and  please. 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays, 
Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all, 
Perchance  uncouthly  as  the  blaze 
With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I  trace ; 

Grave  in  his  aspect  arid  attire  ; 

A  man  of  ancient  pedigree, 

A  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he, 

Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  ''The  Squire." 

Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 

Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 

And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view, 

His  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 

Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed  ; 

He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 

A  chevron  argent  in  the  field, 

With  three  wolfs'  heads,  and  for  the  crest 

A  Wyvern  part-per-pale  addressed 

Upon  a  helmet  barred  ;  below 

The  scroll  reads,  "  By  the  name  of  Howe." 

And  over  this,  no  longer  bright, 

Though  glimmering  with  a  latent  light, 

Was  hung  the  sword  his  grandsire  bore 

In  the  rebellious  days  of  yore, 

Down  there  at  Concord  in  the  fight. 

A  youth  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 

A  student  of  old  books  and  days, 

To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known 

And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own  ; 

With  many  a  social  virtue  graced, 

And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude  ; 

A  man  of  such  a  genial  mood 

The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 

And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 

He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 

Books  were  his  passion  and  delight, 

And  in  his  upper  room  at  home 

Stood  many  a  rare  and  sumptuous  tome 

In  vellum  bound,  witli  gold  bedight, 

Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 

Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 

He  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 

The  border-land  of  old  romance; 

Where  glitter  hauberk,  helm,  and  lance, 

And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  sounds, 

And  ladies  ride  with  hawk  on  wrist, 

And  mighty  warriors  sweep  along, 

Magnified  by  tho.  purple  mist, 


182 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song. 

The  chronicles  of  Charlemagne, 

Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d'Arthure, 

Mingled  together  in  his  brain 

With  tales  of  Flcres  and  Blanchefleur, 

Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglamour, 

Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 

Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,  Sir  Gawain. 


A  young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there  ; 

In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred, 

Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 

Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And,  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 

After  Palermo's  fatal  siege, 

Across  the  western  seas  he  fled, 

In  good  King  Bomba's  happy  reign. 

His  face  was  like  a  summer  night, 

All  flooded  with  a  dusky  light ; 

His  hands  were  small ;  his  teeth  shone  white 

As  sea-shells,  when  he  smiled  or  spoke  ; 

His  sinews  supple  and  strong  as  oak  ; 

Clean  shaven  was  he  as  a  priest, 

Who  at  the  mass  on  Sunday  sings, 

Save  that  upon  his  upper  lip 

His  beard,  a  good  palm's  length  at  least, 

Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 

Shot  sideways,  like  a  swallow's  wings. 

The  poets  read  he  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  most  of  all  the  Immortal  Four 

Of  Italy  ;  and  next  to  those, 

The  story -telling  bard  of  prose, 

Who  wrote  the  joyous  Tuscan  tales 

Of  the  Decameron,  that  make 

Fiesole's  green  hills  and  vales 

Remembered  for  Boccaccio's  sake. 

Much  too  of  music  was  his  thought ; 

The  melodies  and  measures  fraught 

With  sunshine  and  the  open  air, 

Of  Vineyards  and  the  singing  sea 

Of  his  beloved  Sicily  ; 

And  much  it  pleased  him  to  peruse 

The  songs  of  the  Sicilian  muse, — 

Bucolic  songs  by  Meli  sung 

In  the  familiar  peasant  tongue, 

That  made  men  say,  ; '  Behold  !  once  more 

The  pitying  gods  to  earth  restore 

Theocritus  of  Syracuse  !  " 


A  Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 

With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there ; 

Vender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 

And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant. 

Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 

Abraham  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 

Some  later  Prophet  or  High-Priest ; 

With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin, 

And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and  chin, 

The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 

His  garments  breathed  a  spicy  scent 

Of  cinnamon  and  sandal  blent, 

Like  the  soft  aromatic  gales 

That  meet  the  mariner,  who  sails 

Through  the  Moluccas,  and  the  seas 

That  wash  the  shores  of  Celebes. 

All  stories  that  recorded  are 

By  Pierre  Alphonse  he  knew  by  heart, 

And  it  was  rumored  he  could  say 

The  Parables  of  Sandabar, 

And  all  the  Fables  of  Pilpay, 

Or  if  not  all,  the  greater  part ! 

Well  versed  was  he  in  Hebrew  books, 

Talmud  and  Targum,  and  the  lore 

Of  Kabala  ;  and  evermore 

There  was  a  mystery  in  his  looks  ; 

His  eyes  seemed  gazing  far  away. 

As  if  in  vision  or  in  trance 

He  heard  the  solemn  sackhut  play, 

And  saw  the  Jewish  maidens  dance. 


A  Theologian,  from  the  school 

Of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles,  was  there ; 

Skilful  alike  with  tongue  and  pen, 

He  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 

The  Gospel  of  the  Golden  Rule, 

The  new  Commandment  given  to  men, 

Thinking  the  deed,  and  not  the  creed,. 

Would  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 

With  reverent  feet  the  earth  he  trod, 

Nor  banished  nature  from  his  plan, 

But  studied  still  with  deep  research 

To  build  the  Universal  Church. 

Lofty  as  in  the  love  of  God, 

And  ample  as  the  wants  of  man. 

A  Poet,  too,  was  there,  whose  verse 

Was  tender,  musical,  and  terse  ; 

The  inspiration,  the  delight, 

The  gleam,  the  glory,  the  swift  flight, 

Of  thoughts  so  sudden,  that  they  seem 

The  revelations  of  a  dream, 

All  these  were  his  ;  but  with  them  came 

No  envy  of  another's  fame ; 

He  did  not  find  his  sleep  less  sweet 

For  music  in  some  neighboring  street, 

Nor  rustling  hear  in  every  breeze 

The  laurels  of  Miltiades. 

Honor  and  blessings  on  his  head 

While  living,  good  report  when  dead, 

Who,  not  too  eager  for  renown. 

Accepts,  but  does  not  clutch,  the  crown  ! 

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 

Illumined  by  that  fire  of  wood  ; 

Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 

His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 

And  every  feature  of  his  face  ; 

Revealing  his  Norwegian  race : 

A  radiance,  streaming  from  within, 

Around  his  eyes  and  forehead  beamed, 

The  Angel  with  the  violin, 

Painted  by  Raphael,  he  seemed. 

He  lived  in  that  ideal  world 

Whose  language  is  not  speech,  but  song  ; 

Around  him  evermore  the  throng 

Of  elves  and  sprites  their  dances  whirled  ; 

The  Stromkarl  sang,  the  cataract  hurled 

Its  headlong  waters  from  the  height; 

And  mingled  in  the  wild  delight 

The  scream  of  sea-birds  in  their  flight, 

The  rumor  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  plunge  of  the  implacable  seas, 

The  tumult  of  the  wind  at -night, 

Voices  of  eld,  like  trumpets  blowing, 

Old  ballads,  and  wild  melodies 

Through  mist  and  darkness  pouring  forth, 

Like  Elivagar's  river  flowing 

Out  of  the  glaciers  of  the  North. 

The  instrument  on  which  he  played 
Was  in  Cremona's  workshops  made, 
By  a  great  master  of  the  past, 
Ere  yet  was  lost  the  art  divine ; 
Fashioned  of  maple  and  of  pine, 
That  in  Tyrolian  forests  vast 
Had  rocked  and  wrestled  with  the  blast : 
Exquisite  was  it  in  design, 
Perfect  in  each  minutest  part, 
A  marvel  of  the  lutist's  art ; 
And  in  its  hollow  chamber,  thus, 
The  maker  from  whose  hands  it  came 
Had  written  his  unrivalled  name, — 
"  Antoaius  Stradivarius." 

And  when  he  played,  the  atmosphere 
Was  filled  with,  magic,  and  the  ear 
Caught  echoes  of  that  Harp  of  Gold, 
Whose  music  had  so  weird  a  sound, 
The  hunted  stag  forgot  to  bound, 
The  leaping  rivulet  backward  rolled, 
The  birds  came  down  from  bush  and  tree, 


THE  LANDLORD'S  TALE. 


18S 


The  dead  came  from  beneath  the  sea, 
The  maiden  to  the  harper's  knee  ! 

The  music  ceased  ;  the  applause  was  loud, 
The  pleased  musician  smiled  and  bowed  ; 
The  wood-fire  clapped  its  hands  of  flame, 
The  shadows  on  the  wainscot  stirred, 
And  from  the  harpsichord  there  came 
A  ghostly  murmur  of  acclaim, 
A  sound  like  that  sent  down  at  night 
By  birds  of  passage  in  their  flight, 
From  the  remotest  distance  heard. 

f  hen  silence  followed  ;  then  began 
A  clamor  for  the  Landlord's  tale, — 
The  story  promised  them  of  old, 
They  said,  but  always  left  untold  ; 
And  he,  although  a  bashful  man, 
And  all  his  courage  seemed  to  fail, 
Finding  excuse  of  no  avail, 
Yielded ;  and  thus  the  story  ran. 


THE  LANDLORD'S  TALK 
PAUL  REVERE' s  RIDE. 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five ; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea  ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm. 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said  "  Good  night !  "  and  with  muffled 

oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay. 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  ; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed   the  tower  of    the  Old  North 

Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 


And  seeming  to  whisper,  ''  All  is  well !  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  w^th  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth. 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light  ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 

And   beneath,    from   the   pebbles,  in  passing,  a 

spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 
That  was  all !     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and 

the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night  ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his 

flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides  ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

j  It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock. 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall,    . 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


He  watched  with  eager  search  the  belfry  tower. 


So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  f orevermore  ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  nour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof -beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


INTERLUDE. 

THE  Landlord  ended  thus  his  tale, 
Then  rising  took  down  from  its  nail 
The  sword  that  hung  there,  dim  with  dust, 
And  cleaving  to  its  sheath  with  rust. 
And  said,  "  This  sword  was  in  the  fight. " 
The  Poet  seized  it,  and  exclaimed, 
"  It  is  the  sword  of  a  good  knight. 
Though  homespnn  was  his  coat-of-mail ; 
What  matter  if  it  be  not  named 
Joyeuse,  Colado,  Durindale, 
Excalibar,  or  Arouiidight, 


Or  other  name  the  books  record  ? 
Your  ancestor,  who  bore  this  sword 
As  Colonel  of  the  Volunteers, 
Mounted  upon  his  old  gray  mare, 
Seen  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
To  me  a  grander  shape  appears 
Than  old  Sir  William,  or  what  not, 
Clinking  about  in  foreign  lands 
With  iron  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 
And  on  his  head  an  iron  pot !  " 

All  laughed ;  the  Landlord's  face  grew  red 

As  his  escutcheon  on  the  wall ; 

He  could  not  comprehend  at  all 

The  drift  of  what  the  Poet  said  ; 

For  those  who  had  been  longest  dead 

Were  always  greatest  in  his  eyes  ; 

And  he  was  speechless  with  surprise 

To  see  Sir  William's  plumed  head 

Brought  to  a  level  with  the  rest, 

And  made  the  subject  of  a  jest. 

And  this  perceiving,  to  appease 

The  Landlord's  wrath,  the  others'  fears, 

The  Student  said,  with  careless  ease, 

"The  ladies  and  the  cavaliers, 

The  arms,  the  loves,  the  courtesies, 

The  deeds  of  high  emprise,  I  sing  ! 

Thus  Ariosto  says,  in  words 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


185 


That  have  the  stately  stride  and  ring 

Of  armed  knights  and  clashing  swords. 

Now  listen  to  the  tale  I  bring  ; 

Listen  !  though  not  to  me  belong 

The  flowing  draperies  of  his  song, 

The  words  that  rouse,  the  voice  that  charms. 

The  Landlord's  tale  was  one  of  arms, 

Only  a  tale  of  love  is  mine, 

Blending  the  human  and  divine, 

A  tale  of  the  Decameron,  told 

In  Palmieri's  garden  old, 

By  Fiametta,  laurel-crowned, 

While  her  companions  lay  around, 

And  heard  the  intermingled  sound 

Of  airs  that  on  their  errands  sped, 

And  wild  birds  gossipping  overhead, 

And  lisp  of  leaves,  and  fountain's  fall, 

And  her  own  voice  more  sweet  than  all, 

Telling  the  tale,  which,  wanting  these, 

Perchance  may  lose   its  power  to  please." 


THE    STUDENT'S    TALE. 

THE   FALCON"   OF    SER   FEDERIGO. 

OXE  summer  morning,  when  the  sun  was  hot, 

Weary  with  labor  in  his  garden-plot, 

On  a  rude  bench  beneath  his  cottage  eaves, 

Ser  Federigo  sat  among  the  leaves 

Of  a  huge  vine,  that,  with  its  arms  outspread, 

Hung  in  delicious  clusters  overhead. 

Below  him,  through  the  lovely  valley,  flowed 

The  river  Arno.  like  a  winding  road, 

And  from  its  banks  were  lifted  high  in  air 

The  spires  and  roofs  of  Florence  called  the  Fair  ; 

To  him  a  marble  tomb,  that  rose  above 

His  wasted  fortunes  and  his  buried  love. 

For  there,  in  banquet  and  in  tournament, 

His  wealth  had  lavished  been,  his  substance  spent, 

To  woo  and  lose,  since  ill  his  wooing  sped, 

Monna  Giovanna,  who  his  rival  wed, 

Yet  ever  in  his  fancy  reigned  supreme, 

The  ideal  woman  of  a  young  man's  dream. 

Then  he  withdrew,  in  poverty  and  pain, 

To  this  small  farm,  the  last  of  his  domain, 

His  only  comfort  and  his  only  care 

To  prune  his  vines,  and  plant  the  tig  and  pear ; 

His  only  forester  and  only  guest 

His  Falcon,  faithful  to  him,  when  the  rest, 

Whose  willing  hands  had  found  so  light  of  yore 

The  brazen  knocker  of  his  palace  door, 

Had  now  no  strength  to  lift  the  wooden  latch. 

That  entrance  gave  beneath  a  roof  of  thatch. 

Companion  of  his  solitary  ways, 

Purveyor  of  his  feasts  on  holidays, 

On  him  this  melancholy  man  bestowed 

The  love  with  which  his  nature  overflowed. 

And  so  the  empty-handed  years  went  round, 
Vacant,  though  voiceful  with  prophetic  sound, 
And  so,  that  summer  morn,  he  sat  and  mused 
With  folded,  patient  hands,  as  he  was  used, 
And  dreamily  before  his  half-closed  sight 
Floated  the  vision  of  his  lost  delight. 
Beside  him,  motionless,  the  drowsy  bird 
Dreamed  of  the  chase,  and  in  his  slumber  heard 
The  sudden,  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings,  that  dare 
The  headlong  plunge  thro'  eddying  gulfs  of  air, 
Then,  starting  broad  awake  upon  his  perch. 
Tinkled  his  bells,  like  mass-bells  in  a  church, 
And,  looking  at  his  master,  seemed  to  say, 
"  Ser  Federigo,  shall  we  hunt  to-day  ?  " 

Ser  Federigo  thought  not  of  the  chase ; 
The  tender  vision  of  her  lovely  face, 
I  will  not  say  he  seems  to  see,  he  sees 
In  the  leaf-shadows  of  the  trellises, 


Herself,  yet  not  herself  ;  a  lovely  child 
With  flowing  tresses,  and  eyes  wide  and  wild, 
Coming  undaunted  up  the  garden  walk, 
And  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  the  hawk. 
"  Beautiful  falcon  !  "   said  he,  "would  that  I 
Might  hold  thee  on  my  wrist,  or  see  thee  fly  !  " 
The  voice  was  hers,  and  made  strange  echoes  start 
Through  all  the  haunted  chambers  of  his  heart, 
As  an  ieolian  harp  through  gusty  doors 
Of  some  old  ruin  its  wild  music  pours. 

"  Who  is  thy  mother,  my  fair  boy  ?  "  he  said, 
His  hand  laid  softly  on  that  shining  head. 
"  Monna  Giovanna.     Will  you  let  me  stay 
A  little  while,  and  with  your  falcon  play  "i 
We  live  there,  just  beyond  your  garden  wall, 
In  the  great  house  behind  the  poplars  tall." 

So  he  spake  on  ;  and  Fedetigo  heard 
As  from  afar  each  softly  uttered  word, 
And  drifted  onward  through  the  golden  gleams 
And  shadows  of  the  misty  sea  of  dreams, 
As  mariners  becalmed  through  vapors  drift, 
And  feel  the  sea  beneath  them  sink  and  lift, 
And  hear  far  oft"  the  mournful  breakers  roar. 
And  voices  calling  faintly  from  the  shore  ! 
Then,  waking  from  his  pleasant  reveries, 
He  took  the  little  boy  upon  his  knees, 
And  told  him  stories  of  his  gallant  bird, 
Till  in  their  friendship  he  became  a  third. 

Monna  Giovanna,  widowed  in  her  prime, 

Had  come  with  friends  to  pass  the  summer  time 

In  her  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 

O'erlooking  Florence,  but  retired  and  still ; 

With  iron  gates,  that  opened  through  long  lines 

Of  sacred  ilex  and  centennial  pines, 

And  terraced  gardens,  and  broad  steps  of  stone, 

And  sylvan  deities,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 

And  fountains  palpitating  in  the  heat, 

And  all  Val  d'Arno  stretched  beneath  its  feet. 

Here  in  seclusion,  as  a  widow  may. 

The  lovely  lady  whiled  the  hours  away, 

Pacing  in  sable  robes  the  statued  hall, 

Herself  the  stateliest  statue  among  all, 

And  seeing  more  and  more,  with  secret  joy, 

Her  husband  risen  and  living  in  her  boy, 

Till  the  lost  sense  of  life  returned  again, 

Xot  as  delighl,  but  as  relief  from  pain. 

Meanwhile  the  boy,  rejoicing  in  his  strength, 

Stormed  down  the  terraces  from  length  to  length  ; 

The  screaming  peacock  chased  in  hot  pursuit, 

And  climbed  the  garden  trellises  for  fruit. 

But  his  chief  pastime  was  to  watch  the  flight 

Of  a  gerfalcon,  soaring  into  sight, 

Beyond  the  trees  that  fringed  the  garden  wall, 

Then  downward  stooping  at  some  distant  call ; 

And  as  he  gazed  full  often  wondered  he 

Who  might  the  master  of  the  falcon  be. 

Until  that  happy  morning,  when  he  found 

Master  and  falcon  in  the  cottage  ground. 


And  now  a  shadow  and  a  terror  fell 
On  the  great  house,  as  if  a  passing-bell 
Tolled  from  the  tower,  and  filled  each 


spacious 


With  secret  awe,  and  preternatural  gloom  ; 

The  petted  boy  grew  ill,  and  day  by  day 

Pined  with  mysterious  malady  away. 

The  mother's  heart  would  not  be  comforted  ; 

Her  darling  seemed  to  her  already  dead, 

And  often,  sitting  by  the  sufferer's  side, 

"  What  can  I  do  to  comfort  thee  ?"  she  cried. 

At  first  the  silent  lips  made  no  reply, 

But,  moved  at  length  by  her  importunate  cry, 

"Give  me,"  he  answered,  with  imploring  tone, 

"Ser  Federigo's  falcon  for  my  own  !  " 

No  answer  could  the  astonished  mother  make  ; 

How  could  she  ask,  e'en  for  her  darling's  sake, 

Such  favor  at  a  luckless  lover's  hand, 

Well  knowing  that  to  ask  was  to  command  ? 


186 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Well  knowing,  what  all  falconers  confessed, 
In  all  the  land  that  falcon  was  the  best. 
The  master's  pride  and  passion  and  delight, 
And  the  sole  pursuivant  of  this  poor  knight. 
But  yet,  for  her  child's  sake,  she  could  no  less 
Than  give  assent,  to  soothe  his  restlessness, 
So  promised,  and  then  promising  to  keep 
Her  promise  sacred,  saw  him  fall  asleep. 

The  morrow  was  a  bright  September  morn ; 

The  earth  was  beautiful  as  if  new-born ; 

There  was  that  nameless  splendor  everywhere, 

That  wild  exhilaration  in  the  air, 

Which  makes  the  passers  in  the  city  street 

Congratulate  each  other  as  they  meet. 

Two  lovely  ladies,  clothed  in  cloak  and  hood, 

Passed  through  the  garden  gate  into  the  wood, 

Under  the  lustrous  leaves,  and  through  the  sheen 

Of  dewy  sunshine  showering  down  between. 

The  one,  close-hooded,  had  the  attractive  grace 
Which  sorrow  sometimes  lends  a  woman's  face  ; 
Her  dark  eyes  moistened  with  the  mists  that  roll 
From  the  gulf -stream  of  passion  in  the  soul ; 
The  other  with  her  hood  thrown  back,  her  hair 
Making  a  golden  glory  in  the  air, 
Her  cheeks  suffused  with  an  auroral  blush. 
Her  young  heart  singing  louder  than  the  thrush. 
So  walked,  that  morn,  through  mingled  light  and 

shade, 

Each  by  the  other's  presence  lovelier  made, 
Monna  Giovanna  and  her  bosom  friend, 
Intent  upon  their  errand  and  its  end. 

They  found  Ser  Federigo  at  his  toil, 

Like  banished  Adam,  delving  in  the  soil ; 

And  when  he  looked  and  these  fair  women  spied, 

The  garden  suddenly  was  glorified  ; 

His  long-lost  Eden  was  restored  again, 

And  the  strange  river  winding  through  the  plain 

No  longer  was  the  Arno  to  his  eyes, 

But  the  Euphrates  watering  Paradise  ! 

Monna  Giovanna  raised  her  stately  head, 
And  with  fair  words  of  salutation  said : 
"  Ser  Federigo,  we  come  here  as  friends, 
Hoping  in  this  to  make  some  poor  amends 
For  past  unkindness.     I  who  ne'er  before 
Would  even  cross  the  threshold  of  your  door, 
I  who  in  happier  days  such  pride  maintained, 
Refused  your  banquets,  and  your  gifts  disdained, 
This  morning  come,  a  self-invited  guest, 
To  put  your  generous  nature  to  the  test, 
And  breakfast  with  you  under  your  own  vine." 
To  which  he  answered  :   "  Poor  desert  of  mine, 
Not  your  unkindness  call  it,  for  if  aught 
Is  good  in  me  of  feeling  or  of  thought. 
From  you  it  comes,  and  this  last  grace  outweighs 
All  sorrows,  all  regrets  of  other  days." 

And  after  further  compliment  and  talk, 

Among  the  dahlias  in  the  garden  walk 

He  left  his  guests  ;  and  to  his  cottage  turned, 

And  as  he  entered  for  a  moment  yearned 

For  the  lost  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 

The  ruby  glass,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 

And  felt  how  piercing  is  the  sting  of  pride, 

By  want  embittered  and  intensified. 

He  looked  about  him  for  some  means  or  way 

To  keep  this  unexpected  holiday  ; 

Searched    every   cupboard,    and    then    searched 

again, 
Summoned   the  maid,   who   same,   but   came  in 

vain; 

"The  Signer  did  not  hunt  to-day,"  she  said, 
"There's   nothing  in  the  house  but  wine   and 

bread." 

Then  suddenly  the  drowsy  falcon  shook 
His  little  bells,  with  ihat  sagacious  look, 


Which  said,  as  plain  as  language  to  the  ear, 
"  If  anything  is  wanting,  I  ain  here  !  " 
Yes,  everything  is  wanting,  gallant  bird ! 
The  master  seized  thee  without  further  word. 
Like  thine  own  lure,  he  whirled  thee  round ;  ah 

me ! 

The  pomp  and  flutter  of  brave  falconry, 
The  bells,  the  jesses,  the  bright  scarlet  hood, 
The  flight  and  the  pursuit  o  'er  field  and  wood, 
All  these  forevermore  are  ended  now  ; 
No  longer  victor,  but  the  victim  thou  ! 

Then  on  the  board  a  snow-white  cloth  he  spread, 
Laid  on  its  wooden  dish  the  loaf  of  bread. 
Brought  purple  grapes  with  autumn  sunshine  hot, 
The  fragrant  peach,  the  juicy  bergamot ; 
Then  in  the  midst  a  flask  of  wine  he  placed, 
And  with  autumnal  flowers  the  banquet  graced. 
Ser  Federigo,  would  not  these  suffice 
Without  thy  falcon  stuffed  with  cloves  and  spice  ? 

When  all  was  ready,  and  the  courtly  dame 

With  her  companion  to  the  cottage  came, 

Upon  Ser  Federigo's  brain  there  fell 

The  wild  enchantment  of  a  magic  spell ! 

The  room  they  entered,  mean  and  low  and  small, 

Was  changed  into  a  sumptuous  banquet-hall, 

With  fanfares  by  aerial  trumpets  blown  ; 

The  rustic  chair  she  sat  on  was  a  throne ; 

He  ate  celestial  food,  and  a  divine 

Flavor  was  given  to  his  country  wine, 

And  the  poor  falcon,  fragrant  with  his  spice, 

A  peacock  was,  or  bird  of  paradise  ! 

When  the  repast  was  ended,  they  arose 
And  passed  again  into  the  garden-close. 
Then  said  the  lady,  "  Far  too  well  I  know, 
Remembering  still  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Though  you  betray  it  not,  with  what  surprise 
You  see  me  here  in  this  familiar  wise. 
You  have  no  children,  and  you  cannot  guess, 
What  anguish,  what  unspeakable  distress, 
A  mother  feels,  whose  child  is  lying  ill, 
Nor  how  her  heart  anticipates  his  wilL 
And  yet  for  this,  you  see  me  lay  aside 
All  womanly  reserve  and  check  of  pride. 
And  ask  the  thing  most  precious  in  your  sight, 
Your  falcon,  your  sole  comfort  and  delight. 
Which  if  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  give, 
My  poor,  unhappy  boy  perchance  may  live." 

Ser  Federigo  listens,  and  replies, 

With  tears  of  love  and  pity  in  his  eyes : 

"  Alas,  dear  lady  !  there  can  be  no  task 

So  sweet  to  me,  as  giving  when  you  ask. 

One  little  hour  ago,  if  I  had  known 

This  wish  of  yours,  it  would  have  been  my  own. 

But  thinking  in  what  manner  I  could  best 

Do  honor  to  the  presence  of  my  guest, 

I  deemed  that  nothing  worthier  could  be 

Than  what  most  dear  and  precious  was  to  me, 

And  so  my  gallant  falcon  breathed  his  last 

To  furnish  forth  this  morning  our  repast." 

In  mute  contrition,  mingled  with  dismay, 
The  gentle  lady  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Grieving  that  he  such  sacrifice  should  make, 
And  kill  his  falcon  for  a  woman's  sake, 
Yet  feeling  in  her  heart  a  woman's  pride, 
That  nothing  she  could  ask  for  was  denied  ; 
Then  took  her  leave,  and  passed  out  at  the  gate, 
With  footstep  slow  and  soul  disconsolate. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  lo  !  a  passing  bell/ 
Tolled  from  the  little  chapel  in  the  dell ; 
Ten  strokes  Ser  Federigo  heard,  and  said, 
Breathing  a  prayer,  "Alas  !  her  child  is  dead  !  " 
Three  months  went  by  ;  and  lo  !  a  merrier  chime 
Rang  from  the  chapel  bells  at  Christmas  time  ; 
The  cottage  was  deserted,  and  no  more 
Ser  Federigo  sat  beside  its  door, 


TALES   OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN. 


187 


But  now,  with  servitors  to  do  his  will, 
In  the  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
Sat  at  the  Christmas  feast,  and  at  his  side 
Monna  Giovanna,  his  beloved  bride. 
Never  so  beautiful,  so  kind,  so  fair, 
Enthroned  once  more  in  the  old  rustic  chair, 
High-perched    upon    the  back    of  which  there 

stood 

The  image  of  a  falcon  carved  in  wood, 
And  underneath  the  inscription,  with  a  date, 
u  All  things  come  round  to   him   who   will  but 

wait." 


INTERLUDE. 

SOON  as  the  story  reached  its  end, 
One,  over  eager  to  commend, 
Crowned  it  with  injudicious  praise  ; 
And  then  the  voice  of  blame  found  vent, 
And  fanned  the  embers  of  dissent 
Into  a  somewhat  lively  blaze. 

The  Theologian  shook  his  head ; 
"  These  old  Italian  tales,"  he  said, 
"  From  the  much-praised  Decameron  down 
Through  all  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 
Are  either  trifling,  dull,  or  lewd  ; 
The  gossip  of  a  neighborhood 


In  some  remote  provincial  town, 
A  scandalous  chronicle  at  best ! 
They  seem  to  me  a  stagnant  fen, 
Grown  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds, 
Where  a  white  lily,  now  and  then, 
Blooms  in  the  midst  of  noxious  weeds 
And  deadly  nightshade  on  its  banks. " 

To  this  the  Student  straight  replied, 

"For  the  white  lily,  many  thanks  ! 

One  should  not  say,  with  too  much  pride. 

Fountain,  I  will  not  drink  of  thee  ! 

Nor  were  it  grateful  to  forget, 

That  from  these  reservoirs  and  tanks 

Even  imperial  Shakespeare  drew 

His  Moor  of  Venice,  and  the  Jew, 

And  Romeo  and  Juliet, 

And  many  a  famous  comedy." 

Then  a  long  pause  ;  till  some  one  said, 
"  An  angel  is  flying  overhead  !  " 
At  these  words  spake  the  Spanish  Jew, 
And  murmured  with  an  inward  breath : 
' '  God  grant,  if  what  you  say  be  true, 
It  may  not  be  the  Angel  of  Death  !  " 
And  then  another  pause  ;  and  then, 
Stroking  his  beard,  he  said  again  : 
' '  This  brings  back  to  my  memory 
A  story  in  the  Talmud  told, 


He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death  before  him  stand 


188 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold, 

Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 

A  tale  that  often  comes  to  me, 

And  fills  my  heart,  and  haunts  my  brain, 

And  never  wearies  nor  grows  old.'1 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN  LEVI. 

RABBI  BEN  LEVI,  on  the  Sabbath,  read 
A  volume  of  the  Law,  in  which  it  said, 
"No  man  shall  look  upon  my  face  and  live.''. 
And  as  he  read,  he  prayed  that  God  would  give 
His  faithful  servant  grace  with  mortal  eye 
To  look  upon  His  face  and  yet  not  die. 

Then  fell  a  sudden  shadow  on  the  page, 
And,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  grown  dim  with  age, 
He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death  before  him  stand, 
Holding  a  naked  sword  in  his  right  hand. 
Rabbi  Ben  Levi  was  a  righteous  man, 
Yet  through  his  veins  a  chill  of  terror  ran. 
With  trembling  voice  he  said,  "  What  wilt  thou 

here  ?  " 

The  angel  answered,  "  Lo  !  the  time  draws  near 
When  thou  must  die ;  yet  first,  by  God's  decree, 
Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  granted  thee. " 
Replied  the  Rabbi,  "  Let  these  living  eyes 
First  look  upon  my  place  in  Paradise." 

Then  said  the  angel,  "Come  with  me  and  look." 
Rabbi  Ben  Levi  closed  the  sacred  book, 
And  rising,  and  uplifting  his  gray  head, 
"Give  me  thy  sword,"  he  to  the  Angel  said, 
"Lest  thou  shouldst  fall  upon  me  by  the  way." 
The  angel  smiled  and  hastened  to  obey, 
Then  led  him  forth  to  the  Celestial  Town, 
And  set  him  on  the  wall,  whence,  gazing  down, 
Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  with  his  living  eyes, 
Might  lock  upon  his  place  in  Paradise. 

Then  straight  into  the  city  of  the  Lord 

The  Rabbi  leaped  with  the  Death-Angel's  sword, 

And  through  the   streets  there  swept  a  sudden 

breath 
Of  something  there  i  unknown,  which   men   call 

death. 

Meanwhile  the  Angel  stayed  without,  and  cried, 
"  Come    back ! "    To  which  the   Rabbi's   voice 

replied, 

"  No  !  in  the  name  of  God,  whom  I  adore, 
I  swear  that  hence  I  will  depart  no  more  !  " 

Then  all  the  Angels  cried,  "  O  Holy  One, 
See  what  the  son  of  Levi  here  hath  done ! 
The  kingdom  of  Heaven  he  takes  by  violence, 
And  in  Thy  name  refuses  to  go  hence  !  " 
The  Lord  replied,  "  My  Angels,  be  not  wroth ; 
Did  e'er  the  son  of  Levi  break  his  oath  ? 
Let  him  remain ;  for  he  with  mortal  eye 
Shall  look  upon  my  face  and  yet  not  die. " 

Beyond  the  outer  wall  the  Angel  of  Death 
Heard  the  great  voice,  and   said,  with  panting 

breath, 

"  Give  back  the  sword,  and  let  me  go  my  way." 
Whereat    the    Rabbi     paused,    and     answered, 

"Nay." 

Anguish  enough  already  has  it  caused 
Among  the  sons  of  men."    And  while  he  paused 
He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the  Lord 
Resounding  through  the  air,    "Give  back   the 

sword ! " 

The  Rabbi  bowed  his  head  in  silent  prayer  ; 
Then  said  he  to  the  dreadful  Angel,  "Swear, 
No  human  eye  shall  look  on  it  again ; 
But  when  thou  takest  away  the  souls  of  men, 


Thyself  unseen,  and  with  an  unseen  sword, 
Thou  wilt  perform  the  bidding  of  the  Lord." 
The  Angel  took  the  sword  again,  and  swore, 
And  walks  on  earth  unseen  f  orevermore. 


INTERLUDE. 

HE  ended  :  and  a  kind  of  spell 

Upon  the  silent  listeners  fell. 

His  solemn  manner  and  his  words 

Had  touched  the  deep,  mysterious  chords, 

That  vibrate  in  each  human  breast 

Alike,  but  not  alike  confessed. 

The  spiritual  world  seemed  near  ; 

And  close  above  them,  full  of  fear, 

Its  awful  adumbration  passed, 

A  luminous  shadow,  vague  and  vast. 

They  almost  feared  to  look,  lest  there, 

Embodied  from  the  impalpable  air. 

They  might  behold  the  Angel  stand. 

Holding  the  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

At  last,  but  in  a  voice  subdued. 

Not  to  disturb  their  dreamy  mood, 

Said  the  Sicilian  :  ' '  While  you  spoke. 

Telling  your  legend  marvellous, 

Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 

The  thought  of  one,  now  gone  from  us, — • 

An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild, 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a  child, 

Who  sometimes  in  those  days  of  old 

The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  as  I  remember,  thus." 


THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

KING   KOBERT   OF   SICILY. 

ROBERT  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 

And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 

Apparelled  in  magnificent  attire, 

With  retinue  of  many  a  knight  and  squire, 

On  St.  John's  eve,  at  vespers,  proudly  sat 

And  heard  the  priests  chant  the  Magnificat. 

And  as  he  listened,  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Repeated,  like  a  burden  or  refrain, 

He  caught  the  words,  "  De/iosuit  potentes 

De  sede,  el  exaltavit  humiles ; " 

And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head 

He  to  a  learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 

"What  mean  these  words?"      The  clerk  made 

answer  meet, 

"  He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat 
And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scornfully, 
"  'T  is  well  that  such  seditious  words  are  sung 
Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue ; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my  throne  !  " 
And  leaning  back,  he  yawned  and  fell  asleep, 
Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and  deep. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night ; 

The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was  no  light, 

Save  where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered  few  and 

faint. 

Lighted  a  little  space  before  some  saint. 
He  started  from  his  seat  and  gazed  around, 
But  saw  no  living  thing  and  heard  no  sound. 
He  groped  towards  the  door,  but  it  was  locked ; 
He  cried  aloud,  and  listened,  and  then  knocked, 
And  uttered  awful  threatenings  and  complaints, 
And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 
The   sounds  re-echoed  from  the  roof  and  walls 
As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their  stalls. 

At  length  the  sexton,  hearing  from  without 
The  tumult  of  the  knocking  and  the  shout, 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
Came  with  his  lantern,  asking,  *'  Who  is  there  '1 " 
Half  choked  with  rage,  King  Robert  fiercely  said, 
"•  Open  :  't  is  I,  the  King  !     Art  thou  afraid  ''.  " 
The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with  a  curse, 
"  This  is  some  drunken  vagabond,  or  worse  !  " 
Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  portal  wide  ; 
A  man  rushed  by  him  at  a  single  stride, 
Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or  cloak, 
Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him,  nor  spoke, 
But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
And  vanished  like  a  spectre  from  his  sight. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  attire, 
Bareheaded,  breathless,  and  besprent  with  mire, 
With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desperate, 
Strode  on  and  thundered  at  the  palace  gate  ; 
Rushed  through  the  courtyard,  thrusting  in  his 

rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and  page. 
And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding  stair, 
His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches'  glare. 
From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breathless  speed  ; 
Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not  heed, 
Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet-room, 
Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with  perfume. 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king. 

Wearing  his  robes,  his  crown,  his  signet-ring, 

King  Robert's  self  in  features,  form,  and  height, 

But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light ! 

It  was  an  Angel ;  and  his  presence  there 

With  a  divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 

An  exultation,  piercing  the  disguise, 

Though  none  the  hidden  Angel  recognized. 

A  moment  speechless,  motionless,  amazed, 
The  throneless  monarch  on  the  Angel  gazed, 
Who  met  his  look  of  anger  and  surprise 
With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes  ; 
Then  said,  "Who  art  thou  V  and  why  com'st  thou 

here  ?'' 

To  which  King  Robert  answered,  with  a  sneer, 
"  I  am  the  King,  and  come  to  claim  my  own 
From  an  impostor,  who  usurps  my  throne  !  " 
And  suddenly,  at  these  audacious  words, 
Up  sprang   the  angry    guests,  and    drew    their 

swords ; 

The  Angel  answered,  with  unruffled  brow, 
"•  Xay,  not  the  King,  but  the  King's  Jester,  thou 
Henceforth  shalt  wear   the   bells   and    scalloped 

cape, 

And  for  thy  counsellor  shalt  lead  an  ape ; 
Thou  shalt  obey  my  servants  when  they  call, 
And  wait  upon  my  henchmen  in  the  hall !" 

Deaf    to   King  Robert's   threats  and  cries    and 

prayers. 
They  thrust  him  from    the  hall   and   down  the 

stairs  ; 

A  group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before, 
And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding-door, 
His  heart    failed,    for    he   heard,    with   strange 

alarms, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at-arms, 
And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and  ring 
With   the  mock    plaudits    of    ''Long    live    the 

King  !  " 

Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day's  first  beam, 
He  said  within  himself,  '"  It  was  a  dream  ! " 
But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his  head, 
There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his  bed, 
Around  him  rose  the  bare,  discolored  walls. 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in  their  stalls, 
And  in  the  corner,  a  revolting  shape, 
Shivering  and  chattering  sat  the  wretched  ape. 
It  was  no  dream  ;  the  world  he  loved  so  much 
Had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes  at  his  touch  ! 


Days  came  and  went  ;  and  now  returned  again 

To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign ; 

Under  the  Angel's  governance  benign 

The  happy  island  danced  with  corn  and  wine, 

And  deep  within  the  mountain's  burning  breast 

Enceladus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest. 

Meanwhile  King  Robert  yielded  to  his  fate, 
Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 
Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  that  Jesters  wear, 
With  look  bewildered  and  a  vacant  stare, 
Close  shaven  above  the  ears,  as  monks  are  shorn, 
By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed  to  scorn, 
His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others  left, — he  still  was  unsubdued. 
And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest  would  say, 
Sternly,  though  tenderly,  that  he  might  feel 
The  velvet  scabbard  held  a  sword  of  steel, 
"  Art  thou  the  King ''.  ''  the  passion  of  his  woe 
Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow, 
And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would  fling 
The   haughty  answer  back,    "I  am,    I  am  the 
King  !  " 

Almost  three   years  were    ended ;     when  there 

came 

Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Unto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope  Urbane 
By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to  come 
On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 
The  Angel  with  great  joy  received  his  guests, 
And  gave  them  presents  of  embroidered  vests, 
And  velvet  mantles  with  rich  ermine  lined, 
And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 
Then  he  departed  with  them  o'er  the  sea 
Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 
Whose  loveliness  was  more  resplendent  made 
By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade, 
With  plumes,  and  cloaks,  and  housings,  and  the 

stir 
Of  jewelled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 

And  lo  !  among  the  menials,  in  mock  state, 
Upon  a  piebald  steed,  with  shambling  gait, 
His  cloak  of  fox-tails  flapping  in  the  wind, 
The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  behind, 
King  Robert  rode,  making  huge  merriment 
In  all  the  country  towns  through  which  they  went. 

The   Pope  received  them  with  great  pomp  and 

blare 

Of  bannered  trumpets  on  Saint  Peter's  square, 
Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace, 
Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 
While  with  congratulations  and  with  prayers 
He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 
Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the  crowd, 
Into  their  presence  rushed,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  I  am  the  King  !     Look,  and  behold  in  me 
Robert,  your  brother,  King  of  Sicily  ! 
This  man,  who  wears  my  semblance  to  your  eyes. 
Is  an  impostor  in  a  king's  disguise. 
Do  you  not  know  me '!  does  no  voice  within 
Answer  my  cry  and  say  we  are  akin  ?  " 
The  Pope  in  silence,  but  with  troubled  mien, 
Gazed  at  the  Angel's  countenance  serene  ; 
The  Emperor,  laughing,  said,  "It  is  strange  sport 
To  keep  a  madman  for  thy  Fool  at  court  !  " 
And  the  poor,  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In  solemn  state  the  Holy  Week  went  by, 
And  Easter  Sunday  gleamed  upon  the  sky ; 
The  presence  of  the  Angel,  with  its  light, 
Before  the  sun  rose,  made  the  city  bright, 
And  with  new  fervor  filled  the  hearts  of  men. 
Who  felt  that  Christ  indeed  had  risen  again. 
Even  the  Jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw. 
With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splendor  saw,. 


190 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


He  felt  within  a  power  unfelt  before, 
And,  kneeling  humbly  on  his  chamber  floor, 
He  heard  the  rushing  garments  of  the  Lord 
Sweep  through  the  silent  air,  ascending  heaven 
ward. 

And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube's  shore, 
Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and  again 
The  land  was  made  resplendent  with  his  train, 
Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  thence  by  sea. 
And  when  once  more  within  Palermo's  wall, 
And,  seated  on  the  throne  in  his  great  hall, 
He  heard  the  Angelus  from  convent  towers, 
As  if  the  better  world  conversed  with  ours, 
He  beckoned  to  King  Robert  to  draw  nigher, 
And  with  a  gesture  bade  the  rest  retire ; 
And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel  said, 
"Art  thou  the  King  V  "     Then,  bowing  down  his 

head. 

King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon  his  breast, 
And  meekly    answered    him :    "  Thou    knowest 

best! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are  ;  let  me  go  hence, 
And  in  some  cloister's  school  of  penitence, 
Across  those  stones  that  pave  the  way  to  heaven, 
Walk  barefoot,  till  my  guilty  soul  be  shriven  !  " 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant  face 

A  holy  light  illumined  all  the  place. 

And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and  clear, 

They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the  chapel  near, 

Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street : 

' '  He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree  !  " 

And  through  the  chant  a  second  melody 

Rose  like  the  throbbing  of  a  single  string  : 

"  I  am  an  Angel,  and  thou  art  the  King  !  " 

King  Robert,  who  was  standing  near  the  throne, 

Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo  !  he  was  alone  ! 

But  all  apparelled  as  in  days  of  old, 

With  ermined  mantle  and  with  cloth  of  gold ; 

And  when  his  courtiers  came,  they  found  him 

there 
Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in  silent  prayer. 


INTERLUDE. 

AND  then  the  blue-eyed  Norseman  told 
A  Saga  of  the  days  or  old. 
"There  is,"  said  he,  "  a  wondrous  book 
Of  Legends  in  the  old  Norse  tongue, 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway, — 
Legends  that  once  were  told  or  sung 
In  many  a  smoky  fireside  nook 
Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 
By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald  ; 
Heimskringla  is  the  volume  called  ; 
And  he  who  looks  may  find  therein 
The  story  that  I  now  begin. 

And  in  each  pause  the  story  made 

Upon  his  violin  he  played, 

As  an  appropriate  interlude. 

Fragments  of  old  Norwegian  tunes 

That  bound  in  one  the  separate  runes, 

And  held  the  mind  in  perfect  mood, 

Entwining  and  encircling  all 

The  strange  and  antiquated  rhymes 

With  melodies  of  olden  times  ; 

As  over  some  half-ruined  wall, 

Disjointed  and  about  to  fall, 

Fresh  woodbines  climb  and  interlace. 

And  keep  the  loosened  stones  in  place. 


THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE. 


TUB  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THOB, 

I  AM  the  God  Thor, 
I  am  the  War  God, 
I  am  the  Thunderer ! 
Here  in  my  Northland, 
My  fastness  and  fortress, 
Reign  I  forever ! 

Here  amid  icebergs 
Rule  I  the  nations ; 
This  is  my  hammer, 
Miolner  the  mighty ; 
Giants  and  sorcerers 
Cannot  withstand  it ! 

These  are  the  gauntlets 
Wherewith  I  wield  it, 
And  hurl  it  afar  off; 
This  is  my  girdle ; 
Whenever  I  brace  it, 
Strength  is  redoubled  ! 

The  light  thou  beholdest 
Stream  through  the  heavens, 
In  flashes  of  crimson, 
Is  but  my  red  beard 
Blown  by  the  night-wind, 
Affrighting  the  nations ! 

Jove  is  my  brother ; 

Mine  eyes  are  the  lightning ; 

The  wheels  of  my  chariot 

Roll  in  the  thunder, 

The  blows  of  my  hammer 

Ring  in  the  earthquake  ! 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
Has  ruled  it,  shall  rule  it ; 
Meekness  is  weakness, 
Strength  is  triumphant, 
Over  the  whole  earth 
Still  it  is  Thor's-Day  ! 

Thou  art  a  God  too, 
O  Galilean  ! 

And  thus  single-handed 
Unto  the  combat, 
Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 
Here  I  defy  thee  ! 


IL 

KING  OLAF'S  RETURN. 

AND  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry, 
Saw  the  red  light  in  the  sky, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
As  he  leaned  upon  the  railing, 
And  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 

Northward  into  Drontheim  fiord. 

There  he  stood  as  one  who  dreamed  ; 
And  the  red  light  glanced  and  gleamed 

On  the  armor  that  he  wore  ; 
And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor !  " 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 
And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 

Came  the  youthful  Olaf  home. 
Through  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 
Listening  to  the  wild  wind's  wailing, 

And  the  dashing  of  the  foam. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


191 


To  his  thoughts  the  sacred  name 
Of  his  mother  Astrid  came, 

And  the  tale  she  oft  had  told 
Of  her  flight  by  secret  passes 
Through  the  mountains  and  morasses, 

To  the  home  of  Hakon  old. 

Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild's  wrath  and  wrack, 

And  a  hurried  flight  by  sea ; 
Of  grim  Vikings,  and  the  rapture 
Of  the  sea-light,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 

How  a  stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Esthonian  market-place, 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,  "We  should  know  each  other 
I  am  Sigurd,  Astrid's  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid's  son  !  " 

Then  as  Queen  Allogia's  page, 
Old  in  honors,  young  in  age, 

Chief  of  all  her  men-at-arms ; 
Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Reached  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 

Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 

Then  his  cruisings  o'er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides, 

And  to  Scilly's  rocky  shore  ; 
And  the  hermit's  cavern  dismal, 
Christ's  great  name  and  rites  baptismal, 

In  the  ocean's  rush  and  roar. 


All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  strife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars'  intenser  light 
Through  the  red  flames  o'er  him  trailing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing, 

Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 
Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall ; 
Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases. 
Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  races, 

Excellent  alike  in  all. 


When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers, 
He  along  the  bending  oars 

Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 
He  the  Smalsor  Horn  ascended, 
And  his  shining  shield  suspended 

On  its  summit,  like  a  sun. 

On  the  ship-rails  he  could  stand, 
Wield  his  sword  with  either  hand, 

And  at  once  two  javelins  throw ; 
At  all  feasts  where  ale  was  strongest 
Sat  the  merry  monarch  longest, 

First  to  come  and  last  to  go. 

Norway  never  yet  had  seen 
One  so  beautiful  of  mien, 

One  so  royal  in  attire. 
When  in  arms  completely  furnished, 
Harness  gold-inlaid  and  burnished, 

Mantle  like  a  flame  of  fire. 


Thus  came  Olaf  to  his  own, 
When  upon  the  night-wind  blown 

Passed  that  cry  along  the  shore  ; 
And  he  answered,  while  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  !  " 


III. 

TUORA   OF   KIMOL. 

"  THORA  of  Rimol !  hide  me  !  hide  me  ! 
Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me  ! 
For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 
Through    field    and   forest,  through   thorp   and 
town !  " 

Thus  cried  Jarl  Hakon 

To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"Hakon  Jarl !  for  the  love  I  bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come  near  thee  ! 
But  the  hiding-place  wherein  thou  must  lie 
Is  the  cave  underneath  the  swine  in  the  sty.* 

Thus  to  Jarl  Hakon 

Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

So  Hakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched  in  the  cave,  than  a  dungeon  darker, 
As  Olaf  came  riding,  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  forest  roads  into  Orkadale, 

Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 

Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"Rich  and  honored  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Hakon  Jarl  shall  dissever  !  " 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave. 
Through  the  breathing-holes   of   the  darksome 
cave ; 

Alone  in  her  chamber 

Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

Said  Karker,  the  crafty,  ''I  will  not  slay  thee  ! 
For  all  the  king's  gold  I  will  never  betray  thee !  " 
"Then  why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale,  O  churl, 
And  then  again  black  as  the  earth  ?  "  said  the  Earl. 
More  pale  and  more  faithful 
Was  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

From  a  dream  in  the  night  the  thrall  started, 

saying, 
"Round  my  neck  a  gold   ring  King   Olaf  was 

laying  ! " 

And  Hakon  answered,  "  Beware  of  the  king  ! 
He  will  lay  round  thy  neck  a  blood-red  ring." 
At  the  ring  on  her  finger 
Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak  slept  Hakon,  with  sorrows  encum 
bered, 

But  screamed,  and  drew  up  his  feet  as  he  slum 
bered  ; 
The    thrall  in   the   darkness   plunged   with   his 

knife, 

And  the  Earl  awakened  no  more  in  this  life, 
But  wakeful  and  weeping 
Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  Nidarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 
Two  ghastly  heads  on  the  gibbet  are  swinging ; 
One  is  Jarl  Hakon's,  and  one  is  his  thrall's, 
And  the  people  are  shouting  from  windows  and 

walls ; 

While  alone  in  her  chamber, 
Swoons  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


IV. 

QUEEN    SIGRID   THE   HAUGHTY. 

QUEEN  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud  and  aloft 
In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow  and 
croft. 

Heart's  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  was  besprent, 
Filling  the  room  with  their  fragrant  scent. 


192 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


She  heard  the  birds  sing,  she  saw  the  sun  shine, 
The  air  of  summer  was  sweeter  than  wine. 

Like  a  sword  without  scabbard  tbe  bright  river 

lay 
Between  her  own  kingdom  and  Norroway. 

But  Olaf  the  King  had  sued  for  her  hand, 
The  sword  would    be  sheathed,   the    river    be 
spanned. 

Her  maidens  were  seated  around  her  knee, 
Working  bright  figures  in  tapestry. 

And  one  was  singing  the  ancient  rune 

Of  Brynhilda's  love  and  the  wrath  of  Gudrun. 

And  through  it,  and  round  it,  and  over  it  all 
Sounded  incessant  the  waterfall. 

The  Queen  in  her  hand  held  a  ring  of  gold, 
From  the  door  of  Lade's  Temple  old. 

King  Olaf  had  sent  her  this  wedding  gift, 

But  her  thoughts  as  arrows  were  keen  and  swift. 

She  had  given  the  ring  to  her  goldsmiths  twain, 
Who  smiled,  as  they  handed  it  back  again. 

And  Sigrid  the  Queen,  in  her  haughty  way, 
Said,  "  Why  do  you  smile,  my  goldsmiths,  say  ?  " 

And  they  answered:  "O  Queen!  if  the  truth 

must  be  told, 
The  ring  is  of  copper,  and  not  of  gold  !  " 

The  lightning  flashed  o'er  her  forehead  and  cheek, 
She  only  murmured,  she  did  not  speak  : 

"  If  in  his  gifts  he  can  faithless  be, 
There  will  be  no  gold  in  his  love  to  me." 

A  footstep  was  heard  on  the  outer  stair, 
And  in  strode  King  Olaf  with  royal  air. 

He  kissed  the  Queen's  hand,  and  he  whispered  of 

love, 
And  swore  to  be  true  as  the  stars  are  above. 

But  she  smiled  with  contempt  as  she  answered  : 

"OKing, 
Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore,  on  the 

ring?" 

And  the  King  :  "  O  speak  not  of  Odin  to  me, 
The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a  Christian  must  be. " 

Looking  straight  at  the  King,   with   her  le>el 

brows, 
She  said,    "I  keep   true   to  my   faith  and  my 

vows." 

Then  the  face  of  King  Olaf  was  darkened  with 

gloom, 
He  rose  in  his  anger  and  strode  through  the  room. 

"  Why,  then,  should  I  care  to  have"  thee  ?  "  he 

said,  — 
"  A  faded  old  woman,  a  heathenish  jade  !  " 

His  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 
And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with  his 
glove. 

Then  forth  from  the  chamber  in  anger  he  fled, 
And  the  wooden  stairway  shook  with  his  tread. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under  her  breath, 
"This  insult,  King  Olaf,  shall  be  thy  death  !  " 

Heart's  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 


V. 


THE   SKERRY   OP   SHRIEKS. 

Now  from  all  King  Olaf's  farms 

His  men-at-arms 
Gathered  on  the  Eve  of  Easter ; 
To  his  house  at  Angvalds-ness 

Fast  they  press, 
Drinking  with  the  royal  feaster. 

Loudly  through  the  wide-flung  door 

Came  the  roi»r 

Of  the  sea  upon  the  Skerry  ; 
And  its  thunder  loud  and  near 

Reached  the  ear, 
Mingling  with  their  voices  merry. 

"  Hark  !  "  said  Olaf  to  his  Scald, 

Half  red  the  Bald, 
"Listen  to  that  song,  and  learn  it ! 
Half  my  kingdom  would  I  give, 

As  I  live, 
If  by  such  songs  you  would  earn  it !       , 

"  For  of  all  the  runes  and  rhymes 

Of  all  times, 

Best  I  like  the  ocean's  dirges, 
When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks, 

His  hoary  locks 
Flowing  and  flashing  in  the  surges  !  " 

Half  red  answered  :   "I  am  called 

The  Unappalled  ! 
Nothing  hinders  me  or  daunts  me. 
Hearken  to  me,  then,  O  King, 

While  I  sing 
The  great  Ocean  Song  that  haunts  me." 

' '  I  will  hear  your  song  sublime 

Some  other  time," 
Says  the  drowsy  monarch,  yawning, 
And  retires  ;  each  laughing  guest 

Applauds  the  jest ; 
Then  they  sleep  till  day  is  dawning. 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  yard, 

King  Olaf's  guard 
Saw  the  sea-mist  slowly  creeping 
O'er  the  sands,  and  up  the  hill, 

Gathering  still 
Round  the  house  where  they  were  sleeping. 

It  was  not  the  fog  he  saw, 

Nor  misty  flaw, 

That  ab&ve  the  landscape  brooded ; 
It  was  Eyvind  Kallda's  crew 

Of  warlocks  blue 
With  their  caps  of  darkness  hooded  ! 

Round  and  round  the  house  they  go, 

Weaving  slow 
Magic  circles  to  encumber 
And  impriscTi  in  their  ring 

Olaf  the  King, 
As  he  helpless  lies  in  slumber. 

Then  athwart  the  vapors  dun 
The  Easter  sun 

Streamed  with  one  broad  track  of  splendor ! 

In  their  real  forms  appeared 
The  warlocks  weird, 
Awful  as  the  Witch  of  Endoi^ 

Blinded  by  the  light  that  glared, 

They  groped  and  stared 
Round  about  with  steps  unsteady  ; 
From  his  window  Olaf  gazed, 

And,  amazed, 
"  Who  are  these  strange  people  ?  "  said  he. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


193 


"  Eyvind  Kallda  and  his  men  !  " 

Answered  then 

From  the  yard  a  sturdy  farmer ; 
While  the  men-at-arms  apace 

Filled  the  place, 
Busily  buckling  on  their  armor. 

From  the  gates  they  sallied  forth, 

South  and  north, 

Scoured  the  island  coast  around  them, 
Seizing  all  the  warlock  band, 

Foot  and  hand 
On  the  Skerry's  rocks  they  bound  them. 

And  at  eve  the  King  again 

Called  his  train, 

And,  with  all  the  candles  burning, 
Silent  sat  and  heard  once  more 

The  sullen  roar 
Of  the  ocean  tides  returning. 

Shrieks  and  cries  of  wild  despair 

Filled  the  air, 

Growing  fainter  as  they  listened  ; 
Then  the  bursting  surge  alone 

Sounded  on  ;  — - 
Thus  the  sorcerers  were  christened  ! 

"  Sing,  O  Scald,  your  song  sublime, 

Your  ocean-rhyme," 
Cried  King  Olat :   "It  will  cheer  me  !  " 
Said  the  Scald,  with  pallid  cheeks, 

l>The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 
Sings  too  loud  for  you  to  hear  me  !  " 


VI. 

THE   WRAITH   OF   ODIN. 

THE  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was  strong, 
King  Olaf  feasted  late  and  long  ; 
The  hoary  Scalds  together  sang  ; 
O'erhead  the  smoky  rafters  rang. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  door  swung  wide,  with  creak  and  din  ; 
A  blast  of  cold  night-air  came  in, 
Ancl^on  the  threshold  shivering  stood 
A  one-eyed  guest,  with  cloak  and  hood. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  exclaimed.  "O  gray  beard  pale  ! 
Come  warm  thee  with  this  cup  of  ale." 
The  foaming  draught  the  old  man  quaffed, 
The  noisy  guests  looked  on  and  laughed. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  spake  the  King  :   ' '  Be  not  afraid ; 
Sit  here  by  me."     The  guest  obeyed, 
And,  seated  at  the  table,  told 
Tales  of  the  sea,  and  Sagas  old. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

And  ever,  when  the  tale  was  o'er, 
The  King  demanded  yet  one  more  ; 
Till  Sigurd  the  Bishop  smiling  said, 
"  'T  is  late,  O  King,  and  time  for  bed." 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  retired  ;  the  stranger  guest 
Followed  and  entered  with  the  rest ; 
The  lights  were  out,  the  pages  gone, 
But  still  the  garrulous  guest  spake  on. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

As  one  who  from  a  volume  reads, 
He  spake  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 
Of  lands  and  cities  he  had  seen, 
And  stormy  gulfs  that  tossed  between. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang 


Then  from  his  lips  in  music  rolled 
The  Havamal  of  Odin  old, 
With  sounds  mysterious  as  the  roar 
Of  billows  on  a  distant  shore. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

' '  Do  we  not  learn  from  runes  and  rhymes 
Made  by  the  gods  in  elder  times, 
And  do  not  still  the  great  Scalds  teach 
That  silence  better  is  than  speech:1 '' 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Smiling  at  this,  the  King  replied, 
''  Thy  lore  is  by  thy  tongue  belied  ; 
For  never  was  I  so  enthralled 
Either  by  Saga-man  or  Scald." 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  Bishop  said,  ' '  Late  hours  we  keep  ! 
Night  wanes,  O  King  !  't  is  time  for  sleep  !  " 
Then  slept  the  King,  and  when  he  woke 
The  guest  was  gone,  the  morning  broke. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

They  found  the  doors  securely  barred. 
They  found  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard. 
There  was  no  footprint  in  the  grass. 
And  none  had  seen  the  stranger  pass. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

King  Olaf  crossed  himself  and  said  : 
1 '  I  know  that  Odin  the  Great  is  dead  ; 
Sure  is  the  triumph  of  our  Faith, 
The  one-eyed  stranger  was  his  wraith." 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

VII. 

IRON-BEARD. 

OLAF  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 
Blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn. 
Sending  hi.s  signal  through  the  land  of  Drontheirr 

And  to  the  Hus-Ting  held  at  Mere 
Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 
With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront  him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 
Old  Iron-Beard  in  Yriar 
Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a  low  laugh. 

He  wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his  brow. 

Unharnessed  his  horses  from  the  plough, 

And  clattering  came  on  horseback  to  King  Olaf. 

He  was  the  churliest  of  the  churls  ; 
Little  he  cared  for  king  or  earls  ; 
Bitter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foaming  pas 
sions. 

Hodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 
And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he  swore  ; 
He  hated  the  narrow  town,  and  all  its  fashions. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his  farm, 

His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside  warm, 

Gudrun  his  daughter,  with  her  flaxen  tresses. 

He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds, 
The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song  of  birds, 
His  well-filled  barns,  his  brook  with  its  water- 
cresses. 

Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame ; 
His  beard,  from  which  he  took  his  name. 
Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Hymer  the  Giaf* 

So  at  the  Hus  Ting  he  appeared. 
The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron-Beard, 
On  horseback,  in  an  attitude  defiant. 


194 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Olaf  the  Kins,  one  summer  morn,  blew  a  blast. 


And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 
That  tossed  about  him  like  a  stormy  ocean  : 

"  Such  sacrifices  shalt  thou  bring  ; 
To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  O  King, 
As  other  kings  have  done  in  their  devotion  !  " 

King  Olaf  answered  :   "I  command 
This  land  to  be  a  Christian  land  ; 
Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  baptizes  ! 

"  But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 
Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore, 
Then  will  I  offer  human  sacrifices  ! 

' '  Not  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they  be, 
But  men  of  note  and  high  degree, 
Such  men  as  Ormof  Lyra  and  Kar  of  Gryting  !  " 


Then  to  their  Temple  strode  he  in, 
And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of  his   men-at-arms  and   the  peasants  fiercely 
fighting. 

There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood. 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood, 
And  other  gods,  with  Thor  supreme  among  them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the  blade 
Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 
And  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement  flung 
them. 

At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 
From  the  contending  crowd,  a  shout, 
A  mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wailing. 

And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 
The  farmer  Iron-Beard  lay  slain, 
Midway  between  the  assailed  and  the  assailing. 


fALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


195 


King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke : 
"  Choose  ye  between  two  things,  my  folk, 
To  be  baptized  or  given  up  to  slaughter  !  " 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and  dead, 
The  people  with  a  murmur  said, 
""  O  King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy  water  ;  " 

80  all  the  Drontheim  laud  became 
A  Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 
In  the  old  gods  no  more  believing  and  trusting. 

And  as  a  blood-atonement,  soon 
King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun  ; 
And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim  Hus- 
Ting! 


VIII. 


ON  King  Olaf's  bridal  night 
Shines  the  moon  with  tender  light, 
And  across  the  chamber  streams 
Its  tide  of  dreams. 

At  the  fatal  midnight  hour, 
When  all  evil  things  have  power, 
In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 
Stands  Gudrun. 

Close  against  her  heaving  breast, 
Something  in  her  hand  is  pressed  ; 
Like  an  icicle,  its  sheen 
Is  cold  and  keen. 

On  the  cairn  are  fixed  her  eyes 
Where  her  murdered  father  lies, 
And  a  voice  remote  and  drear 
She  seems  to  hear. 

What  a  bridal  night  is  this  ! 
Cold  will  be  the  dagger's  kiss  ; 
Laden  with  the  chill  of  death 
Is  its  breath. 

Like  the  drifting  snow  she  sweeps 
To  the  couch  where  Olaf  sleeps ; 
Suddenly  he  wakes  and  stirs 
His  eyes  meet  hers. 

"  What  is  that,"  King  Olaf  said, 
"Gleams  so  bright  above  thy  head? 
Wherefore  standest  thou  so  white 
In  pale  moonlight  V  " 

"  'T  is  the  bodkin  that  I  wear 
When  at  night  1  bind  my  hair  ; 
It  woke  rne  falling  on  the  floor  ; 
'T  is  nothing  more." 

"  Forests  have  ears,  and  fields  have  eyes  ; 
Often  treachery  lurking  lies 
Underneath  the  fairest  hair  ! 
Gudrun  beware  !  " 

Ere  the  earliest  peep  of  morn 
Blew  King  Olaf's  bugle-horn  ; 
And  forever  sundered  ride 
Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 


IX. 

THANGBRAND  THE  PRIEST. 

SHORT  of  stature,  large  of  limb, 
Burley  face  and  russet  beard, 

All  the  women  stared  at  him, 
When  in  Iceland  he  appeared. 


1 '  Look  !  "  they  said, 
With  nodding  head, 
"There  goes  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest." 

All  the  prayers  he  knew  by  rote, 

He  could  preach  like  Chrysostome, 
From  the  Fathers  he  could  quote, 
He  had  even  been  at  Rome. 
A  learned  clerk, 
A  man  of  mark, 
Was  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

He  was  quarrelsome  and  loud, 

And  impatient  of  control. 
Boisterous  in  the  market  crowd, 
Boisterous  at  the  wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 
Would  drink  and  swear, 
Swaggering  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

In  his  house  this  malcontent 

Could  the  King  no  longer  bear, 
So  to  Iceland  he  was  sent 

To  convert  the  heathen  there, 
And  away 
One  summer  day 
Sailed  this  Thangbrand,  Oiaf's  Priest 

There  in  Iceland,  o'er  their  books 
Pored  the  people  day  and  night, 
But  he  did  not  like  their  looks, 
Nor  the  songs  they  used  to  write. 
"All  this  rhyme 
Is  waste  of  time  !  " 
Grumbled  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

To  the  alehouse,  where  he  sat, 

Came  the  Scalds  arid  Saga-men  ; 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at, 

That  they  quarrelled  now  and  then, 
When  o'er  his  beer 
Began  to  leer 
Drunken  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest  ? 

All  the  folk  in  Altafiord 

Boasted  of  their  island  grand  ; 
Saying  in  a  single  word, 
' '  Iceland  is  the  finest  land 
That  the  sun 
Doth  shine  upon  !  " 
Loud  laughed  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest 

And  he  answered  :   "  What's  the  use 

Of  this  bragging  up  and  down, 
When  three  women  and  one  goose 
Make  a  market  in  your  town  !  " 
Every  Scald 
Satires  scrawled 
On  poor  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

Something  worse  they  did  than  that ; 

And  what  vexed  him  most  of  all 
Was  a  figure  in  shovel  hat, 

Drawn  in  charcoal  on  the  wall  ; 
With  words  that  go 
Sprawling  below. 
This  is  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest." 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did, 

Then  he  smote  them  might  and  main, 
Thorvald  Veile  and  Veterlid 
Lay  there  in  the  alehouse  slain. 
"  To-day  we  are  gold, 
To-morrow  mould  !  " 
Muttered  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

Much  in  fear  of  axe  and  rope, 
Back  to  Norway  sailed  he  then. 

"  O,  King  Olaf  !  little  hope 
Is  there  of  these  Iceland  men  !  " 


196 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Meekly  said, 
With  bending  head, 
Pious  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

X. 

BAUD  THE  STKONG. 

"ALL  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

All  the  wild  warlocks  fled  ; 

But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 

And  throughout  my  wide  domains 

His  Gospel  shall  be  spread  !  " 

On  the  Evangelists 

Thus  swore  King  Olaf. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 
Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 
And  heard  the  voice  that  defied 
Him  who  was  crucified, 
And  challenged  him  to  the  fight. 

To  Sigurd  the  Bishop 

King  Olaf  confessed  it. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 
"  The  old  gods  are  not  dead, 
For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 
And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread." 

Thus  to  King  Olaf 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"  Far  north  in  the  Salten  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Raud  the  Strong ; 

All  the  Godoe_  Isles  belong 

To  him  and  his  heathen  horde." 

Thus  went  on  speaking 

Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"  A  warlock,  a  wizard  is  he, 
And  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea ; 
And  whichever  way  he  sails, 
He  has  ever  favoring  gales,         / 
By  his  craft  in  sorcery. " 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross 
Made  devoutly  King  Olaf. 

"  With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 
He  worships  Odin  and  Thor  ; 
So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 
That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 
And  the  warlocks  are  no  more," 
Flushing  with  anger 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud : 
"  I  will  talk  with  this  mighty  Raud, 
And  along  the  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 
Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud  !  " 

So  northward  from  Drontheim 

Sailed  King  Olaf  ! 

XI. 

BISHOP   SIGURD   AT   SALTEN   FIORD. 

LODD  the  angry  wind  was  wailing 
As  King  Olaf's  ships  came  sailing 
Northward  out  of  Drontheim  haven 
To  the  mouth  of  Salten  Fiord. 

Though  the  flying  sea-spray  drenches 
Fore  and  aft  the  rowers'  benches, 
Not  a  single  heart  is  craven 

Of  the  champions  there  on  board. 

All  without  the  Fiord  was  quite, 
But  within  it  storm  and  riot, 


Such  as  on  his  Viking  cruises 

Raud  the  Strong  was  wont  to  ride. 

And  the  sea  through  all  its  tide-ways 
Swept  the  reeling  vessels  sideways, 
As  the  leaves  are  swept  through  sluices, 
When  the  flood-gates  open  wide. 

'"T  is  the  warlock !  't  is  the  demon 
Raud  !  "  cried  Sigurd  to  the  seamen; 
"But  the  Lord  is  not  affrighted 

By  the  witchcraft  of  his  foes." 

To  the  ship's  bow  he  ascended, 
By  his  choristers  attended, 
Round  him  were  the  tapers  lighted, 
And  the  sacred  incense  rose. 

On  the  bow  stood  Bishop  Sigurd, 
In  his  robes,  as  one  transfigured, 
And  the  Crucifix  he  planted 

High  amid  the  rain  and  mist. 

Then  with  holy  water  sprinkled 
All  the  ship;  the  mass-bells  tinkled; 
Loud  the  monks  around  him  chanted, 
Loud  he  read  the  Evangelist. 

As  into  the  Fiord  they  darted, 
On  each  side  the  water  parted  ; 
Down  a  path  like  silver  molten 
Steadily  rowed  King  Olaf's  ships; 

Steadily  burned  all  night  the  tapers, 
And  the  White  Christ  through  the  vapors 
Gleamed  across  the  Fiord  of  Salten, 

As  through  John's  Apocalypse,  — 

Till  at  last  they  reached  Raud's  dwelling 
On  the  little  Isle  of  Gelling  ; 
Not  a  guard  was  at  the  doorway, 

Not  a  glimmer  of  light  was  seen. 

But  at  anchor,  carved  and  gilded, 
Lay  the  dragon-ship  he  builded ; 
'T  was  the  grandest  ship  in  Norway, 

With  its  crest  and  scales  of  green. 

Up  the  stairway,  softly  creeping, 
To  the  loft  where  Raud  was  sleeping, 
With  their  fists  they  burst  asunder 

Bolt  and  bar  that  held  the  door. 

Drunken  with  sleep  and  ale  they  found  him, 
Dragged  him  from  his  bed  and  bound  him, 
While  he  stared  with  stupid  wonder, 

At  the  look  and  garb  they-  wore. 

Then  King  Olaf  said  :   "  O  Sea-King  ! 
Little  time  have  we  for  speaking, 
Choose  between  the  good  and  evil : 

Be  baptized,  or  thou  shalt  die  ! 

But  in  scorn  the  heathen  scoffer 
Answered  :   "  I  disdain  thine  offer ; 
Neither  fear  I  God  nor  Devil ; 

Thee  and  thy  Gospel  I  defy  !  " 

Then  between  his  jaws  distended, 
When  his  frantic  struggles  ended, 
Through  King  Olaf's  horn  an  adder, 

Touched  by  fire,  they  forced  to  glide. 

Sharp  his  tooth  was  as  an  arrow, 

As  he  gnawed  through  bone  and  marrow  ; 

But  without  a  groan  or  shudder, 

Raud  the  Strong  blaspheming  died. 

Then  baptized  they  all  that  region, 
Swarthy  Lap  and  fair  Norwegian, 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


197 


Far  as  swims  the  salmon,  leaping. 

Up  the  streams  of  Salten  Fiord. 

In  their  temples  Thor  and  Odin 
Lay  in  dust  and  ashes  trodden, 
As  King  Olaf,  onward  sweeping, 

Preached  the  Gospel  with  his  sword. 

Then  he  took  the  carved  and  gilded 
Dragon-ship  that  Hand  had  builded, 
And  the  tiller  single-handed, 

Grasping,  steered  into  the  main. 

Southward  sailed  the  sea-gulls  o'er  him, 
Southward  sailed  the  ship  that  bore  him, 
Till  at  Drontheim  haven  landed 
Olaf  and  his  crew  again. 

XII. 

KING  OLAF'S  CHRISTMAS. 

AT  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King 
Heard  the  bells  of  Yule-tide  ring, 

As  he  sat  in  his  banquet-hall, 
Drinking  the  nut-brown  ale, 
With  his  bearded  Berserks  hale 

And  tall. 

Three  days  his  Yule-tide  feasts 
He  held  with  Bishops  and  Priests, 

And  his  horn  filled  up  to  the  brim  ; 
But  the  ale  was  never  too  strong, 
Nor  the  Saga-man's  tale  too  long, 

For  him. 

O'er  his  drinking-horn,  the  sign 
He  made  of  the  cross  divine, 

As  he  drank,  and  muttered  his  prayers  : 
But  the  Berserks  evermore 
Made  the  sign  of  the  Hammer  of  Thor 

Over  theirs. 

The  gleams  of  the  fire-light  dance 
Upon  helmet  and  hauberk  and  lance, 

And  laugh  in  the  eyes  of  the  King  ; 
And  he  cries  to  Halfred  the  Scald, 
Gray-bearded,  wrinkled,  and  bald, 

"  Sing  !" 

"  Sing  me  a  song  divine, 
With  a  sword  in  every  line, 

And  this  shall  be  thy  reward." 
And  he  loosened  the  belt  at  his  waist, 
And  in  front  of  the  singer  placed 

His  sword. 

"  Quern-biter  of  Hakon  the  Good, 
Wherewith  at  a  stroke  he  hewed 

The  millstone  through  and  through, 
And  Foot-breadth  of  Thoralf  the  Strong, 
Were  neither  so  broad  nor  so  long, 

Nor  so  true." 

Then  the  Scald  took  his  harp  and  sang, 
And  loud  through  the  music  rang 

The  sound  of  that  shining  word  ; 
And  the  harp-strings  a  clangor  made, 
As  if  they  were  struck  with  the  blade 

Of  a  sword. 

And  the  Berserks  round  about 
Broke  forth  in  a  shout 

That  made  the  rafters  ring  : 
They  smote  with  their  fists  on  the  board, 
And  shouted,  "  Long  live  the  sword, 

And  the  King  !  " 

But  the  King  said,   "  O  my  son, 
I  miss  the  bright  word  in  one 

Of  thy  measures  and  thy  rhymes." 


And  Halfred  the  Scald  replied, 
"  In  another  't  was  multiplied 
Three  times." 

Then  King  Olaf  raised  the  hilt 
Of  iron,  cross-shaped  and  gilt, 

And  said,  "  Do  not  refuse  ; 
Count  well  the  gain  and  the  loss, 
Thor's  hammer  or  Christ's  cross  : 

Choose ! " 

And  Halfred  the  Scald  said,  "This 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  I  kiss, 

Who  on  it  was  crucified  !  " 
And  a  shout  went  round  the  board, 
"  In  the  name  of  Christ  the  Lord, 

Who  died !  " 

Then  over  the  waste  of  snows 
The  noonday  sun  uprose, 

Through  the  driving  mists  revealed. 
Like  the  lifting  of  the  Host, 
By  incense-clouds  almost 

Concealed. 

On  the  shining  wall  a  vast 
And  shadowy  cross  was  cast 

From  the  hilt  of  the  lifted  sword, 
And  in  foaming  cups  of  ale 
The  Berserks  drank  "  Was-hael ! 

To  the  Lord  !  " 


XIII. 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

THORBF.KG  SKAFTINO,  master-builder, 

In  his  ship-yard  by  the  sea, 
Whistling,  said,  "It  would  bewilder 
Any  man  but  Thorberg  Skaftmg, 

Any  man  but  me  !  " 

Near  him  lay  the  Dragon  stranded, 
Built  of  old  by  Raud  the  Strong, 

And  King  Olaf  had  commanded 

He  should  build  another  Dragon, 
Twice  as  large  and  long. 

Therefore  whistled  Thorberg  Skafting, 
As  he  sat  with  half -closed  eyes, 

And  his  head  turned  sideways,  drafting 

That  new  vessel  for  King  Olaf 
Twice  the  Dragon's  size. 

Round  him  busily  hewed  and  hammered 

Mallet  huge  and  heavy  axe  ; 
Workmen  laughed  and  sang  and  clamored  ; 
Whirred  the  wheels,  that  into  rigging 

Spun  the  shining  flax  ! 

All  this  tumult  heard  the  master, — 

It  was  music  to  his  ear  ; 
Fancy  whispered  all  the  faster, 
"Men  shall  hear  of  Thorberg  Skafting 

For  a  hundred  year  !  " 

Workmen  sweating  at  the  forges 

Fashioned  iron  bolt  and  bar, 
Like  a  warlock's  midnight  orgies 
Smoked  and  bubbled  the  black  caldron 

With  the  boiling  tar. 

Did  the  warlocks  mingle  in  it, 

Thorberg  Skafting,  any  curse  'i 
Could  you  not  be  gone  a  minute 
But  some  mischief  must  be  doing. 
Turning  bad  to  worse  V 


198 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


'T  was  an  ill  wind  that  came  wafting. 
From  his  homestead  words  of  woe  ; 

To  his  farm  went  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Oft  repeating  to  his  workmen, 
Build  ye  thus  an  d  so. 

After  long  delays  returning 

Came  the  master  back  by  night ; 

To  his  ship-yard  longing,  yearning, 

Hurried  he,  and  did  not  leave  it 
Till  the  morning's  light. 

"Come  and  see  my  ship,  my  darling  !  " 
On  the  morrow  said  the  King ; 

"  Finished  now  from  keel  to  carling  ; 

Never  yet  was  seen  in  Norway 
Such  a  wondrous  thing !  " 

In  the  ship-yard,  idly  talking, 

At  the  ship  the  workmen  stared  : 
Some  one  all  their  labor  balking, 
Down  her  sides  had  cut  deep  gashes, 
Not  a  plank  was  spared  ! 

"  Death  be  to  the  evil-doer  !  " 

With  an  oath  King  Olaf  spoke  ; 
"  But  rewards  to  his  pursuer  !  " 
And  with  wrath  his  face  grew  redder 
Than  his  scarlet  cloak. 

Straight  the  master-builder,  smiling, 
Answered  thus  the  angry  King  : 

"  Cease  blaspheming  and  reviling, 

Olaf,  it  was  Thorberg  Skafting 
Who  has  done  this  thing  !  " 

Then  he  chipped  and  smoothed  the  planking, 
Till  the  King,  delighted,  swore, 

With  much  lauding  and  much  thanking, 

' '  Handsomer  is  now  my  Dragon 
Than  she  was  before !  " 

Seventy  ells  and  four  extended 
On  the  grass  the  vessel's  keel ; 

High  above  it,  gilt  and  splendid, 

Rose  the  figure-head  ferocious 
With  its  crest  of  steel. 

Then  they  launched  her  from  the  tressels, 

In  the  ship-  yard  by  the  sea ; 
She  was  the  grandest  of  all  vessels, 
Never  ship  was  built  in  Norway 

Half  so  fine  as  she  ! 

The  Long  Serpent  was  she  christened, 

'Mid  the  roar  of  cheer  on  cheer  ! 
They  who  to  the  Saga  listened 
Heard  the  name  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a  hundred  year  ! 


XIV. 

THE  CHEW  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

SAFE  at  anchor  in  Drontheim  bay 
King  Olaf's  fleet  assembled  lay, 

And,  striped  with  white  and  blue, 
Downward  fluttered  sail  and  banner, 
As  alights  the  screaming  lanner  ; 
Lustily  cheered,  in  their  wild  manner, 

The  Long  Serpent's  crew. 

Her  forecastle  man  was  Ulf  the  Red  ; 
Like  a  wolf's  was  his  shaggy  head, 

His  teeth  as  large  and  white ; 
His  beard,  of  gray  and  russet  blended, 
Round  as  a  swallow's  nest  descended  ; 
As  standard-bearer  he  defended 

Olaf's  flag  in  the  fight. 


Near  him  Kolbiorn  had  his  place, 
Like  the  King  in  garb  and  face, 

So  gallant  and  so  hale  ; 
Every  cabin  -boy  and  varlet, 
Wondered  at  his  cloak  of  scarlet ; 
Like  a  river,  frozen  and  star-lit, 

Gleamed  his  coat  of  mail. 

By  the  bulkhead,  tall  and  dark, 
Stood  Thrand  Rame  of  Thelemark, 

A  figure  gaunt  and  grand  ; 
On  his  hairy  arm  imprinted 
Was  an  anchor,  azure-tinted  ; 
Like  Thpr's  hammer,  huge  and  dinted 

Was  his  brawny  hand. 

Einar  Tamberskelver,  bare 
To  the  winds  his'golden  hair, 

By  the  mainmast  stood  ; 
Graceful  was  his  form,  and  slender, 
And  his  eyes  were  deep  and  tender 
As  a  woman's,  in  the  splendor 

Of  her  maidenhood. 

In  the  fore-hold  Biorn  and  Bork 
Watched  the  sailors  at  their  work  : 

Heavens  !    how  they  swore ! 
Thirty  men  they  each  commanded, 
Iron-sinewed,  horny-handed, 
Shoulders  broad,  and  chests  expanded, 

Tugging  at  the  oar. 

These,  and  many  more  like  these, 
With  King  Olaf  sailed  the  seas, 

Till  the  waters  vast 
Filled  them  with  a  vague  devotion, 
With  the  freedom  and  the  motion, 
With  the  roll  and  roar  of  ocean 

And  the  sounding  blast. 

When  they  landed  from  the  fleet, 

How  they  roared  through  Drontheim's  street, 

Boisterous  as  the  gale  ! 

How  they  laughed  and  stamped  and  pounded, 
Till  the  tavern  roof  resounded, 
And  the  host  looked  on  astounded 

As  they  drank  the  ale  ! 

Never  saw  the  wild  North  Sea 
Such  a  gallant  company 

Sail  its  billows  blue  ! 
Never,  while  they  cruised  and  quarrelled, 
Old  King  Gprm,  or  Blue-Tooth  Harald, 
Owned  a  ship  so  well  apparelled, 

Boasted  such  a  crew  ! 

XV. 

A   LITTLE   BIRD    IN    THE   AIR. 

A  LITTLE  bird  in  the  air 
Is  singing  of  Thyri  the  fair. 

The  sister  of  Svend  the  Dane  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  garrulous  bird 

In  the  streets  of  the  town  is  heard. 

And  repeated  again  and  again. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

To  King  Burislaf,  it  is  said, 
Was  the  beautiful  Thyri  wed, 

And  a  sorrowful  bride  went  she  ; 
And  after  a  week  and  a  dav, 
She  has  fled  away  and  away, 
From  his  town  by  the  stormy  sea. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

They  say,  that  through  heat  and  through  cold, 
Through  weald,  they  say,  and  through  wold, 
By  day  and  by  night,  they  say, 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


199 


She  has  fled  ;  and  the  gossips  report 
She  has  come  to  King  Olaf's  court, 
And  the  town  is  all  in  dismay. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

It  is  whispered  King  Olaf  has  seen, 
Has  talked  with  the  beautiful  queen  ; 
And  thej"  wonder  how  it  will  end  ; 
For  surely,  if  here  she  remain, 
It  is  war  with  King  Svend  the  Dane, 
And  King  Burislaf  the  Vend  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

O,  greatest  wonder  of  all ! 

It  is  published  in  hamlet  and  hall, 

It  roars  like  a  flame  that  is  fanned  ! 
The  King— yes,  Olaf  the  King- 
Has  wedded  her  with  his  ring, 
And  Thyri  is  Queen  in  the  land  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


XVI. 

QUEEN    THYRI   AND    THE    ANGELICA    STALKS. 

NORTHWARD  over  Drontheim 
Flew  the  clamorous  sea-gulls, 
Sang  the  lark  and  linnet 
From  the  meadows  green  ; 

Weeping  in  her  chamber, 
Lonely  and  unhappy, 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Sat  King  Olaf's  Queen. 

In  at  all  the  windows 
Streamed  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
On  the  roof  above  her 
Softly  cooed  the  dove  ; 

But  the  sound  she  heard  not, 
Nor  the  sunshine  heeded, 
For  the  thoughts  of  Thyri 
Were  not  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  King  Olaf  entered, 
Beautiful  as  morning, 
Like  the  sun  at  Easter 
Shone  his  happy  face  ; 

In  his  hand  he  carried 
Angelicas  uprooted, 
With  delicious  fragrance 
Filling  all  the  place. 

Like  a  rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Even  the  smile  of  Olaf 

Could  not  cheer  her  gloom  ; 

Nor  the  stalks  he  gave  her 
With  a  gracious  gesture, 
And  with  words  as  pleasant 
As  their  own  perfume. 

In  her  hands  he  placed  them, 
And  her  jewelled  fingers 
Through  the  green  leaves  glistened 
Like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 

But  she  cast  them  from  her, 
Haughty  arid  indignant, 
On  the  floor  she  threw  them 
With  a  look  of  scorn. 


"Richer  presents,"  said  she, 
' '  Gave  King  Harald  Gormson 
To  the  Queen,  my  mother, 
Than  such  worthless  weeds  ; 

"When  he  ravaged  Norway 
Laying  waste  the  kingdom, 
Seizing  scatt  and  treasure 
For  her  royal  needs. 

;'But  thou  darest  not  venture 
Through  the  Sound  to  Vendland, 
My  domains  to  rescue 
From  King  Burislaf ; 

"  Lest  King  Svend  of  Denmark, 
Forked  Beard,  my  brother, 
Scatter  all  thy  vessels 
As  the  wind  the  chaff." 

Then  up  sprang  King  Olaf, 
Like  a  reindeer  bounding, 
With  an  oath  he  answered 
Thus  the  luckless  Queen  : 

"  Never  yet  did  Olaf 
Fear  King  Svend  of  Denmark  ; 
This  right  hand  shall  hale  him 
By  his  forked  chin  !  " 

Then  he  left  the  chamber, 
Thundering  through  the  doorway, 
Loud  his  steps  resounded 
Down  the  outer  stair. 

Smarting  with  the  insult, 
Through  the  streets  of  Drontheim 
Strode  he  red  and  wrathful, 
With  his  stately  air. 

All  his  ships  he  gathered, 
Summoned  all  his  forces, 
Making  his  war  levy 
In  the  region  round  ; 

Down  the  coast  of  Norway, 
Like  a  flock  of  sea-gulls, 
Sailed  the  fleet  of  Olaf 

Through  the  Danish  Sound. 

With  his  own  hand  fearless, 
Steered  he  the  Long  Serpent, 
Strained  the  creaking  cordage, 
Bent  each  boom  and  gaff  ; 

Till  in  Vendland  landing, 
The  domains  of  Tl^ri 
He  redeemed  and  rescued 
From  King  Burislaf. 

Then  said    Olaf,  laughing, 
"  Not  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
Have  the  power  to  draw  us 
Like  a  woman's  hair  ! 

"  Now  will  I  confess  it, 
Better  things  are  jewels 
Than  angelica  stalks  are 
For  a  Queen  to  wear." 


XVII. 

KING  SVEND  OF  THE  FORKED  BEARD. 

LOUDLY  the  sailors  cheered 

Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard, 

As  with  his  fleet  he  steered 

Southward  to  Vendland ; 


200 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Where  with  their  courses  hauled 
All  were  together  called, 
Under  the  Isle  of  Svald 
Near  to  the  mainland. 

After  Queen  Gunhild's  death, 
So  the  old  Saga  saith, 
Plighted  King  Svend  his  faith 

To  Sigrid  the  Haughty ; 
And  to  avenge  his  bride, 
Soothing  her  wounded  pride, 
Over  the  waters  wide 

King  Olaf  sought  ho. 

i 

Still  on  her  scornful  face, 
Blushing  with  deep  disgrace, 
Bore  she  the  crimson  trace 

Of  Olaf's  gauntlet ; 
Like  a  malignant  star, 
Blazing  in  heaven  afar, 
Red  shone  the  angry  scar 

Under  her  frontlet 

Oft  to  King  Svend  she  spake, 
"For  thine  own  honor's  sake 
Shalt  thou  swift  vengeance  take 

On  the  vile  coward  ! ' ' 
Until  the  King  at  last, 
Gusty  and  overcast, 
Like  a  tempestuous  blast 

Threatened  and  lowered. 

Soon  as  the  Spring  appeared, 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 
High  his  red  standard  reared, 

Eager  for  battle ; 
While  every  warlike  Dane, 
Seizing  his  arms  again, 
Left  all  unsown  the  grain, 

Unhoused  the  cattle. 


Likewise  the  Swedish  King 
Summoned  in  haste  a  Thing, 
Weapons  and  men  to  bring 

In  aid  of  Denmark  ; 
Eric  the  Norseman,  too, 
As  the  war  tidings  flew, 
Sailed  with  a  chosen  crew 

From  Lapland  and  Finmark, 

So  upon  Easter  day 

Sailed  the  three  kings  away, 

Out  of  the  sheltered  bay. 

In  the  bright  season  ; 
With  them  Earl  Sigvald  came. 
Eager  for  spoil  and  fame ; 
Pity  that  such  a  name 

Stooped  to  such  treason ! 

Safe  under  Svald  at  last, 
Now  were  their  anchors  cast, 
Safe  from  the  sea  and  blast, 

Plotted  the  three  kings  ; 
While,  with  a  base  intent. 
Southward  Earl  Sigvald  went, 
On  a  foul  errand  bent, 

Unto  the  Sea-kings. 

Thence  to  hold  on  his  course, 
Unto  King  Olaf's  force. 
Lying  within  the  hoarse 

Mouths  of  Stet-haven ; 
Him  to  ensnare  and  bring, 
Unto  the  Danish  king, 
Who  his  dead  corse  would  fling 

Forth  to  the  raven  ! 


XVIH. 

KING   OLAF   AND   EARL    SIGVALD. 

ON  the  gray  sea-sands 
King  Olaf  stands, 
Northward  and  seaward 
He  points  with  his  hands. 

With  eddy  and  whirl 
The  sea-tides  curl, 
Washing  the  sandals 
Of  Sigvald  the  Earl. 

The  mariners  shout, 
The  ships  swing  about, 
The  yards  are  all  hoisted, 
The  sails  flutter  out. 

The  war-horns  are  played, 
The  anchors  are  weighed, 
Like  moths  in  the  distance 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 

The  sea  is  like  lead, 
The  harbor  lies  dead, 
As  a  corse  on  the  sea-shore, 
Whose  spirit  has  fled  ! 

On  that  fatal  day, 
The  histories  say, 
Seventy  vessels 
Sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

But  soon  scattered  wide 
O'er  the  billows  they  ride, 
While  Sigvald  and  Olaf 
Sail  side  by  side. 

Cried  the  Earl  :   "  Follow  me  ! 
I  your  pilot  will  be, 
For  I  know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea  !  " 

So  into  the  strait 
Where  his  foes  lie  in  wait, 
Gallant  King  Olaf 
Sails  to  his  fate  ! 

Then  the  sea-fog  veils 
The  ships  and  their  sails  ; 
Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty, 
Thy  vengeance  prevails  ! 


XIX. 

KING  OLAF'S  WAR-HORNS. 

"STRIKE  the  sails  !  "  King  Olaf  said ; 
' '  Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight ; 
Never  away  from  battle  I  fled, 
Never  away  from  my  foe  ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight !  " 

"Sound  the  horns  !  "  said  Olaf  the  King  ; 
And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 

Of  Regnarock, 
On  the  day  of  Doom  ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  war-horns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood ; 
All  the  sails  came  down  with  a  clang, 
And  there  in  the  mist  overhead 

The  sun  hung  red 
As  a  drop  of  blood. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


201 


Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed, 
So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat ; 
In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  rest         ' 

The  burnished  crest 
Of  the  Serpent  Hashed. 

King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow  of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak, 
His  gilded  shield  was  without  a  fleck, 
His  helmet  inlaid  with  gold, 

And  in  many  a  fold 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 

On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red 
Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  ; 
"  If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 
We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here, 

Said  he  with  a  sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 
"  Have  I  a  coward  on  board  'i "  said  he. 
"  Shoot  it  another  way,  O  King  !  " 
Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 

The  old  sea-wolf  ; 
"You  have  need  of  me  !  " 

In  front  came  Svend,  the  King  of  the  Danes, 
Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers  ; 
To  the  right,  the  Swedish  king  with  his  thanes  : 
And  on  board  of  the  Iron  Beard 

Earl  Eric  steered 
To  the  left  with  his  oars. 

"These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,"  said  the  King 
"  At  home  with  their  wives  had  better  stay, 
Than  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent's  sting  : 
But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads 

Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day  !  " 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed, 
Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide. 
With  which  King  Olaf's  ships  were  lashed, 
And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 

With  the  currents  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl, 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting  ! 
Eric  the  =011  of  Hakon  Jarl 
A  death-drink  salt  as  the  sea 

Pledges  to  thee, 
Olaf  the  King  ! 

XX. 

EINAR    TAMBEKSKELVER. 

IT  was  Einar  Tamberskelver 

Stood  beside  the  mast ; 
From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silver, 

Flew  the  arrows  fast ; 
Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing, 

As  he  sat  concealed, 
Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 

Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller, 

Just  above  his  head  ; 
"Sing,  O  Eyvind  Skaldaspiller," 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 
"  Sing  the  song  of  Hakon  dying, 

Sing  his  funeral  wail !  " 
And  another  arrow  flying 

Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 

Turning  to  a  Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed. 
Said  Earl  Eric,  "  Shoot  that  bowman 

Standing  by  the  mast." 


Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 

Flew  the  yeoman's  shaft ; 
Einar's  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 

Einar  only  laughed. 

"What  was  that  ?  "  said  Olaf,  standing 

On  the  quarter-deck. 
"  Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 

Of  a  shattered  wreck." 
Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 

From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered,  "  That  was  Norway  breaking 

From  thy  hand,  O  King  !  " 

"  Thou  art  but  a  poor  diviner," 

Straightway  Olaf  said  ; 
4>  Take  my  bow,  and  swifter,  Einar, 

Let  thy  shafts  be  sped." 
Of  his  bows  the  fairest  choosing, 

Reached  he  from  above  ; 
Einar  saw  the  blood-drops  oozing 

Through  his  iron  glove. 

But  the  bow  was  thin  and  narrow  ; 

At  the  first  assay, 
O'er  its  head  he  drew  the  arrow, 

Flung  the  bow  away  ; 
Said,   with  hot  and  angry  temper 

Flushing  in  his  cheek, 
"Olaf  !  for  so  great  a  Kiimper 

Are  thy  bows  too  weak  !  " 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 

On  his  beardless  lip, 
Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 

Eric's  dragon-ship. 
Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 

Bright  his  armor  gleamed  ; 
Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing 

Lucifer  he  seemed. 


XXI. 


KING   OLAF  S  DEATH-DRINK. 

ALL  day  has  the  battle  raged. 
All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 
But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl. 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 
The  arrows  of  death  are  sped, 
The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead, 
And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl. 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide, 
The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 
The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 
The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 

Ah  !  never  shall  Norway  again 
See  her  sailors  come  back  o'er  the  main ; 
They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 
Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue  ! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  King, 
Around  him  whistle  and  sing 
The  spears  that  the  foenien  fling, 

And  the  stones  they  hurl  with  their  hands 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Koibiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 
His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 
By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 

Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent's  deck 
Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a  check, 
His  lips  with  anger  are  pale  ; 


202 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Alone  in  her  chamber  knelt  Astrid  the  Abbes 


tie,  hews  with  his  axe  at  the  mast, 
Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a  snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 
He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 
As  a  hunter  into  the  den 
Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  bay. 

"  Remember  Jarl  Hakon  !  "   he  cries  ; 
When  lo  !  on  his  wondering  eyes, 
Two  kingly  figures  arise, 
Two  Olafs  in  warlike  array  ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in  the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a  word  of  cheer, 
In  a  whisper  that  none  may  hear, 
With  a  smile  on  his  ti  emulous  lip  ; 

Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 
Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 
Two  scarlet  meteors'  glare, 

Arid  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric's  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Kolbiorn's  shield  as  it  floats. 
And  cry,  from  their  hairv  throats 
"  See  !  it  is  Olaf  the  King  !  " 

While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  OH  the  tide, 
Like  a  jewel  set  in  the  wide 
Sea-current's  eddying  ring. 


There  is  told  a  wonderful  tale, 
How  the  King  stripped  off  his  mail, 
Like  leaves  of  the  brown  sea-kale, 
As  he  swam  beneath  the  main  ; 

But  the  young  grew  old  and  gray, 
And  never,  by  night  or  by  day, 
In  his  kingdom  of  Norroway 
Was  King  Olaf  seen  again  ! 


XXII. 

THE  NUN  OF    NIDAROS. 

IN  the  convent  of  Drontheim, 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Knelt  Astrid  the  Abbess, 
At  midnight,  adoring, 
Beseeching,  entreating 
The  Virgin  and  Mother. 

She  heard  in  the  silence 
The  voice  of  one  speaking, 
Without  in  the  darkness, 
In  gusts  of  the  night-wind 
Now  louder,  now  nearer, 
Now  lost  in  the  distance. 

The  voice  of  a  stranger 
It  seemed  as  she  listened, 
Of  some  one  who  answered, 
Beseeching,  imploring, 
A  cry  from  afar  off 
She  could  not  distinguish. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


203 


The  voice  of  Saint  John, 
The  beloved  disciple, 
Who  wandered  and  waited 
The  Master's  appearance. 
Alone  in  the  darkness, 
Unsheltered  and  friendless. 

"  It  is  accepted 

The  angry  defiance, 

The  challenge  of  battle  ! 

It  is  accepted. 

But  not  with  the  weapons 

Of  war  that  thou  wieldest ! 

"Cross  against  corselet, 

Love  against  hatred, 

Peace-cry  for  war-cry ! 

Patience  is  powerful ; 

He  that  o'ercometh 

Hath  power  o'er  the  nations  ! 

"As  torrents  in  summer. 
Half  dried  in  their  channels, 
Suddenly  rise,  though  the 
Sky  is  still  cloudless. 
For  rain  has  been  falling 
Far  off'  at  their  fountains  ; 

"  So  hearts  that  are  fainting 
Grow  full  to  o'erflowing. 
And  they  that  behold  it 
Marvel,  and  know  not 
That  God  at  their  fountains 
Far  off  has  been  raining  ! 

'•  Stronger  than  steel 
Is  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  ; 
Swifter  than  arrows 
The  light  of  the  truth  is, 
Greater  than  anger 
Is  love,  and  subdueth  ! 

"  Thou  art  a  phantom, 
A  shape  of  the  sea-mist, 
A  shape  of  the  brumal 
Rain,  and  the  darkness 
Fearful  and  formless ; 
Day  dawns  and  thou  art  not  ! 

"  The  dawn  is  not  distant. 
Nor  is  the  night  starless  ; 
Love  is  eternal ! 
God  is  still  God,  and 
His  faith  shall  not  fail  us ; 
Christ  is  eternal  '.  ' 


INTERLUDE. 

A  STRAIN  of  music  closed  the  tale, 
A  low,  monotonous,  funeral  wail. 
That  with  its  cadence,  wild  and  sweet, 
M.ide  the  long  Saga  more  complete. 

"Thank  God,"  the  Theologian  said, 
' '  The  reign  of  violence  is  dead. 
Or  dying  surely  from  the  world  ; 
While  love  triumphant  reigns  instead, 
And  in  a  brighter  sky  o'erhead 
His  blessed  banners  are  unfurled. 
And  most  of  all  thank  God  for  this  : 
The  war  and  waste  of  clashing  creeds 
Now  end  in  words,  and  not  in  deeds, 
And  no  one  suffers  loss,  or  bleeds, 
For  thoughts  that  men  call  heresies. 

"  I  stand  without  here  in  the  porch, 
I  hear  the  bell's  melodious  din, 
I  hear  the  organ  peal  within, 


I  hear  the  prayer,  with  words  that  scorch 

Like  sparks  from  an  inverted  torch, 

I  hear  the  sermon  upon  sin, 

With  threatenings  of  the  last  account. 

And  all,  translated  in  the  air, 

Reach  me  but  as  our  dear  Lord's  Prayer, 

And  as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

"  Must  it  be  Calvin,  and  not  Christ  '' 

Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds 

Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads  f 

Must  struggling  souls  remain  content 

With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent  "i 

And  can  it  be  enough  for  these 

The  Christian  Church  the  year  embalms 

With  evergreens  and  boughs  of  palms, 

And  fills  the  air  with  litanies  V 

"  I  know  that  yonder  Pharisee 
Thanks  God  that  he  is  not  like  me  ; 
In  my  humiliation  dressed, 
I  only  stand  and  beat  my  breast, 
And  pray  for  human  charity. 

"  Not  to  one  church  alone,  but  seven, 

The  voice  prophetic  spake  from  heaven  ; 

And  unto  each  the  promise  came, 

Diversified,  but  still  the  same  ; 

For  him  that  overcometh  are 

The  new  name  written  on  the  stone. 

The  raiment  white,  the  crown,  the  throne, 

And  I  will  give  him  the  Morning  Star  ! 

"  Ah  !  to  how  many  Faith  has  been 
No  evidence  of  things  unseen. 
But  a  dim  shadow,  that  recasts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts, 
For  whom  no  Man  of  Sorrows  died, 
For  whom  the  Tragedy  Divine 
Was  but  a  symbol  and  a  sign, 
And  Christ  a  phantom  crucified  ! 

"  For  others  a  diviner  creed 
Is  living  in  the  life  they  lead. 
The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  pavement  of  the  street, 
And  all  their  looks  and  words  repeat 
Old  Fuller's  saying,  wise  and  sweet, 
Not  as  a  vulture,  but  a  dove. 
The  Holy  Ghost  came  from  above. 

"  And  this  brings  back  to  me  a  tale 
So  sad  the  hearer  well  may  quail, 
And  question  if  such  things  can  be ; 
Yet  in  the  chronicles  of  Spain    . 
Down  the  dark  pages  runs  this  stain. 
And  naught  can  wash  them  white  again, 
So  fearful  is  the  tragedy.  " 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S   TALE. 

TOKQUKMADA. 

I>*  the  heroic  days  when  Ferdinand 

And  Isabella  ruled  the  Spanish  land, 

And  Torquemada,  with  his  subtle  brain, 

Ruled  them,  as  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 

In  a  great  castle  near  Valladolid, 

Moated  and  high  and  by  fair  woodlands  hid. 

There  d  welt,  as  from  the  chronicles  we  learn, 

An  old  Hidalgo  proud  and  taciturn, 

Whose   name   has   perished,  with   his   tow«is  of 

stone, 

And  all  his  actions  save  this  one  alone ; 
This  one,  so  terrible,  perhaps  't  were  best 
If  it,  too,  were  forgotten  with  the  rest ; 
Unless,  perchance,  our  eyes  can  see  therein 
The  martyrdom  triumphant  o'er  the  sin; 


204 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


A  double  picture,  with  its  gloom  and  glow, 
The  splendor  overhead,  the  death  below. 

This  sombre  man  counted  each  day  as  lost 
On  which  his  feet  no  sacred  threshold  crossed  ; 
And  when  he  chanced  the  passing  Host  to  meet, 
He  knelt  and  prayed  devoutly  in  the  street ;  _ 
Oft    he    confessed ;    and    with    each    mutinous 

thought, 

As  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus,  he  fought. 
In  deep  contrition  scourged  himself  in  Lent, 
Walked  in  processions,  with  his  head  down  bent, 
At  plays  of  Corpus  Christi  oft  was  seen, 
And  on  Palm  Sunday  bore  his  bough  of  green. 
His  sole  diversion  was  to  hunt  the  boar 
Through  tangled  thickets  of  the  forest  hoar, 
Or  with  his  jingling  mules  to  hurry  down 
To  some  grand  bull-fight  in  the  neighboring  town, 
Or  in  the  crowd  with  lighted  taper  stand, 
When  Jews  were  burned,  or  banished  from  the  j 

land. 

Then  stirred  within  him  a  tumultuous  joy 
The  demon  whose  delight  is  to  destroy 
Shook  him,  and  shouted  with  a  trumpet  tone, 
Kill !  kill !  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  las  own  !  " 

And  now,  in  that  old  castle  in  the  wood. 

His  daughters,  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood, 

Returning  from  their  convent  school,  had  made 

Resplendent  with  their  bloom  the  forest  shade, 

Reminding  him  of  their  dead  mother's  face, 

When  first  she  came  into  that  gloomy  place, — 

A  memory  in  his  heart  as  dim  and  sweet 

As  moonlight  in  a  solitary  street, 

Where  the  same  rays,  that  lift  the  sea,  are  thrown 

Lovely  but  powerless  upon  walls  of  stone. 

These  two  fair  daughters  of  a  mother  dead  | 

Were  all  the  dream  had  left  him  as  it  fled. 

A  joy  at  first,  and  then  a  growing  care, 

As  if  a  voice  within  him  cried,  "Beware  !  " 

A  vague  presentiment  of  impending  doom. 

Like  ghostly  footsteps  in  a  vacant  room, 

Haunted  him  day  and  night ;   a  formless  fear 

That  death  to  some  one  of  his  house  was  near, 

With  dark  surmises  of  a  hidden  crime, 

Made  life  itself  a  death  before  its  time. 

Jealous,  suspicious,  with  no  sense  of  shame, 

A  spy  upon  his  daughters  he  became  ; 

With  velvet  slippers,  noiseless  on  the  floors, 

He  glided  softly  through  half -open  doors  ; 

Now  in  the  room,  and  now  upon  the  stair, 

He  stood  beside  them  ere  they  were  aware ; 

He  listened  in  the  passage  when  they  talked, 

He  watched  them  from  the  casement  when  they 

walked, 

He  saw  the  gypsy  haunt  the  river's  side, 
He  saw  the  monk  among  the  cork-trees  glide  ; 
And,  tortured  by  the  mystery  and  the  doubt 
Of  some  dark  secret,  past  his  finding  out, 
Baffled  he  paused  ;  then  reassured  again 
Pursued  the  flying  phantom  of  his  brain. 
He  watched  them  even  when  they  knelt  in  church  ; 
.And  then,  descending  lower  in  his  search, 
Questioned  the  servants,  and  with  eager  eyes 
Listened  incredulous  to  their  replies  ; 
The  gypsy  ?  none  had  seen  her  in  the  wood  ! 
The  monk  V  a  mendicant  in  search  of  food  ! 

At  length  the  awful  revelation  came, 
Crushing  at  once  his  pride  of  birth  and  name, 
The  hopes  his  yearning  bosom  forward  cast, 
And  the  ancestral  glories  of  the  past ; 
All  fell  together,  crumbling  in  disgrace, 
A  turret  rent  from  battlement  to  base. 
His  daughters  talking  in  the  dead  of  night 
In  their  own  chamber,  and  without  a  light, 
Listening,  as  lie  was  wont,  he  overheard, 
And  learned  the  dreadful  secret,  word  by  word ; 
And  hurrying  from  his  castle,  with  a  cry 
He  raised  his  hands  to  the  unpitying  sky. 


Repeating  one  dread  word,  till  bush  and  tree 
Caught  it,  and  shuddering  answered,  "Heresy  ! '' 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  hat  drawn  o  'er  his  face, 
Now  hurrying  forward,  now  with  lingering  pace, 
He  walked  all  night  the  alleys  of  his  paik, 
With  one  unseen  companion  in  the  dark, 
The  Demon  who  within  him  lay  in  wait, 
And  by  his  presence  turned  his  love  to  hate, 
Forever  muttering  in  an  undertone, 
"  Kill !  kill !  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his  own  !  " 

Upon  the  morrow,  after  early  Mass, 
While  yet  the  dew  was  glistening  on  the  grass, 
And  all  the  woods  were  musical  with  birds, 
The  old  Hidalgo,  uttering  fearful  words, 
Walked   homeward  with  the  Priest,  and   in   his 

room 

Summoned  his  trembling  daughters  to  their  doom. 
When  questioned,  with  brief  answers  they  replied, 
Nor  when  accused  evaded  or  denied ; 
Expostulations,  passionate  appeals, 
All  that  the  human  heart  most  fears  or  feels, 
In  vain  the  Priest  with  earnest  voice  essayed, 
In  vain  the  father  threatened,  wept,  and  prayed ; 
Until  at  last  he  said,  with  haughty  mien, 
u  The  Holy  Office,  then,  must  intervene  !  " 
And  now  the  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
With  all  the  fifty  horsemen  of  his  train, 
His  awful  name  resounding,  like  the  blast 
Of  funeral  trumpets,  as  he  onward  passed, 
Came  to  Valladolid,  and  there  began 
To  harry  the  rich  Jews  with  fire  and  ban. 
To  him  the  Hidalgo  went,  and  at  the  gate 
Demanded  audience  on  affairs  of  state, 
And  in  a  secret  chamber  stood  before 
A  venerable  graybeard  of  fourscore, 
Dressed  in  the  hood  and  habit  of  a  friar  ; 
Out  of  his  eyes  flashed  a  consuming  tire, 
And  in  his  hand  the  mystic  horn  he  held, 
Which  poison'and  all  noxious  charms  dispelled. 
He  heard  in  silence  the  Hidalgo's  tale, 
Then  answered  in  a  voice  that  made  him  q-iail  • 
"  Son  of  the  Church !  when  Abraham  of  old 
To  sacriftce  his  only  son  was  told, 
He  did  not  pause  to  parley  nor  protest, 
But  hastened  to  obey  the  Lord's  behest. 
In  him  it  was  accounted  righteousness ; 
The  Holy  Church  expects  of  thee  no  less  1 " 

A  sacred  frenzy  seized  the  father's  brain, 
And  Mercy  from  that  hour  implored  in  vain. 
Ah  !  who  will  e'er  believe  the  words  I  say  ? 
His  daughters  he  accused,  and  the  same  day 
Thev  both  were  cast  into  the  dungeon's  gloom, 
That  dismal  antechamber  of  the  tomb, 
Arraigned,  condemned,  and  sentenced  to  the  flame, 
The  secret  torture  and  the  public  shame. 

Then  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  once  more 
The  Hidalgo  went,  more  eager  than  before, 
And  said:   ''When  Abraham  offered  up  his  son, 
He  clave  ihe  wood  wherewith  it  might  be  dor.e. 
By  his  example  taught,  let  me  too  bring 
Wood  from  the  forest  for  my  offering  !  " 
And  the  deep  voice,  without  a  pause,  replied  : 
"Son  of  the  Church  !  by  faith  now  justified, 
Complete  thy  sacrifice,  even  as  thou  wilt ; 
The  Church   absolves  thy  conscience  from    all 
guilt !  " 

Then  this  most  wretched  father  went  his  way 
Into  the  woods,  that  round  his  castle  lay, 
Where  once   his    daughters  in   their    childhood 

played 

With  their  young  mother  in  the  sun  and  shade. 
Now  all  the  leaves  had  fallen  ;  the  branches  bare 
Made  a  perpetual  moaning  in  the  air, 
And  screaming  from  their  eyries  overhead 
The  ravens  sailed  athwart  the  sky  of  lead. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


203 


With  his  own  hands  he  lopped  the  houghs  and 

bound 

Fagots,  that  crackled  with  foreboding  sound, 
And  on  his  mules,  caparisoned  and  gay 
With  bells  and  tassels,  sent  them  on  their  way. 

Then  with  his  mind  on  one  dark  purpose  bent, 
Again  to  the  Inquisitor  he  went, 
And  said  :   "  Behold,  the  fagots  I  have  brought, 
And  now,  lest  my  atonement  be  as  naught, 
(irant  me  one  more  request,  one  last  desire, — 
With  my  own  hand  to  light  the  funeral  tire  ! " 
And  Torquemada  answered  from  his  seat, 
"Son  of  the  Church!      Thine  offering  is   com 
plete  ; 

Her  servants  through  all  ages  shall  not  cease 
To  magnify  thy  deed.     Depart  in  peace  !  " 

Upon  the  market-place,  builded  of  stone 

The  scaffold  rose,  whereon  Death  claimed  his  own. 

At  the  four  corners,  in  stern  attitude, 

Four  statues  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets  stood, 

Gazing  with  calm  indifference  in  their  eyes 

Upon  this  place  of  human  sacrifice, 

Round  which  was  gathering  fast  the  eager  crowd, 

With  clamor  of  voices  dissonant  and  loud, 

And  every  roof  and  window  was  alive 

With  restless  gazers,  swarming  like  a  hive. 

The  church  bells  tolled,  the  chant  of  monks  drew 

near, 
Loud  trumpets  stammered  forth    their  notes   of 

fear, 

A  line  of  torches  smoked  along  the  street, 
There  was  a  stir,  a  rush,  a  tramp  of  feet, 
And,  with  its  banners  floating  in  the  air, 
Slowly  the  long  procession  crossed  the  square, 
And,  to  the  statues  of  the  Prophets  bound, 
The  victims  stood,  with  fagots  piled  around. 
Then  all  the  air  a  blast  of  trumpets  shook, 
And  louder  sang  the  monks  with  bell  and  book, 
And  the  Hidalgo,  lofty,  stern,  and  proud, 
Lifted  his  torch,  and,  bursting  through  the  crowd, 
Lighted  in  haste  the  fagots,  and  then  fled, 
Lest  those  imploring  eyes  should  strike  him  dead  ! 

O  pitiless  skies  !  why  did  your  clouds  retain 
For  peasants'  fields  their  floods  of  hoarded  rain  ? 
O  pitiless  earth  !  why  open  no  abyss 
To  bury  in  its  chasm  a  crime  like  this  ? 

That  night,  a  mingled  column  of  fire  and  smoke 
From  the  dark  thickets  of  the  forest  broke. 
And,  glaring  o'er  the  landscape  leagues  away, 
Made  all  the  fields  and  hamlets  bright  as  day. 
Wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  flame  the  castle  blazed, 
And  as  the  villagers  in  terror  gazed, 
They  saw  the  figure  of  that  cruel  knight 
Lean  from  a  window  in  the  turret's  height, 
His  ghastly  face  illumined  with  the  glare, 
His  hands  upraised  above  his  head  in  prayer, 
Till  the  floor  sank  beneath  him,  and  he  fell 
Down  the  black  hollow  of  that  burning  well. 

Three  centuries  and  more  above  his  bones 
Have  piled  the  oblivious  years  like  funeral  stones  ; 
His  name  has  perished  with  him,  and  no  trace 
Remains  on  earth  of  his  afflicted  race  ; 
But  Torquemada's  name,  with  clouds  o'ercast, 
Looms  in  the  distant  landscape  of  the  Past, 
Like  a  burnt  tower  upon  a  blackened  heath, 
Lit  by  the  fires  of  burning  woods  beneath  ! 


The  Jew  was  thoughtful  and  distressed  ; 
Upon  his  memory  thronged  and  pressed 
The  persecution  of  his  race, 
Their  wrongs,  and  sufferings  and  disgrace  : 
His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
And  from  his  eyes  alternate  came 
Flashes  of  wrath  and  tears  of  shame. 

The  student  first  the  silence  broke, 

As  one  who  long  has  lain  in  wait, 

With  purpose  to  retaliate, 

And  thus  he  dealt  the  avenging  stroke. 

"In  such  a  company  as  this, 

A  tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss, 

That  by  its  terrible  control 

O'ermasters  and  drags  down  the  soul 

Into  a  fathomless  abyss. 

The  Italian  Tales  that  you  disdain, 

Some  merry  Night  of  Straparole, 

Or  Machiavelli's  Belphagor, 

Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more, 

Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 

Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain  !  " 

And  here  the  Poet  raised  his  hand, 
With  such  entreaty  and  command, 
It  stopped  discussion  at  its  birth. 
And  said  :   "The  story  I  shall  tell 
Has  meaning  in  it,  if  not  mirth  ; 
Listen,  and  hear  what  once  befell 
The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth  !  " 


INTERLUDE. 

THUS  closed  the  tale  of  guilt  and  gloom, 
That  cast  upon  each  listener's  face 
Its  shadow,  and  for  some  brief  space 
Unbroken  silence  filled  the  room. 


THE  POET'S  TALE. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWOKTII. 

IT  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building  sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 

Whom  Saxon   Caedmon   calls   the   Blitheheart 
King  ; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand. 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap. 

And  wave  tiieir  fluttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud. 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their 
glee; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be  ; 

And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly. 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said  ; 

"  Give  us,  O  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread  ! " 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  arid 
sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet ; 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with  dread 
ful  words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 
To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 

Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 
Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 


206 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 
The    awful    scarecrow,    with    his     fluttering 

shreds ; 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 

The  Squire  came  forth,    august    and    splendid 

sight ! 
Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 

Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 
Down   the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who 
said, 

"  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 

Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  !  " 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill ; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year  to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the  Will  ; 

His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill ; 

E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural  lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  Tipper  class. 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said. 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as  snow ; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore ; 
His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  -itep  was  slow ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before ; 

He   seemed   the  incarnate   "  Well  I  told  you 
so ! " 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 
His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound  ; 

111  fared  it  with  the  binds,  both  great  and  small ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart, 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 
Looked  round    bewildered    on   the  expectant 
throng ; 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frowE, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

'  Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 
From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets  ;  in  this  little  town  of  yours. 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

"  The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood  ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm ;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food  ; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood  ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 


1 '  You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore  ?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 
Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

"  Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these  ? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who- 

taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys. 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught ! 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven  ! 

"  Think,    every   morning  when    the   sun  peeps 

through 

The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 
|  How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 

Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! 
;  And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 

'T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 
i  The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

"  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds! 

O_f  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams  ! 
Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 
The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door  ? 

"  What !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  roundelay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake  ? 

"  You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers  ;  but  know, 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms. 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  i'oe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  hai  ms ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow. 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

"  How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 
The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 

When    by  your  laws,    your  actions,    and  your 
speech. 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  ?  " 

With  this  he  closed;  and  through   the  audience 
went 

A  murmur  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves ; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 

Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves  ; 
Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 

Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in  beeves. 
The  birds  were  doomed ;  and,  as  the  record  shows, 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach : 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And   crcfwned   his  modest  temples   with  ap 
plause  ; 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


207 


They   made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than 

each, 

He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 
Sweetest  of  ail  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 
O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began  ; 

O'er  fields   and   orchards,  and   o'er  woodland 

crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their 

breasts, 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests; 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead  ; 

The  clays  were  like  hot  coals  ;  the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes ;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the  town, 
Because,  like  Herod,  it  hath  ruthlessly 

Slaughtered  the  Innocents.     From  the  trees  spun 

down 
Thecanker-worms  upon  the  passers  by, 

Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry; 

They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few, 
Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
WThen  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again  ; 

As  schoolboys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look. 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day  book. 

A  few  lostleavesblushed  crimson  with  their  shame, 
And   drowned    themselvjs    despairing   in   the 
brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 


But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  t-e^n, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  ! 

A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 

All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From   all   the  country  round   these  birds    were 
brought, 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons,  sought 

In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best. 
Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 

Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 
While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard  ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


FINALE. 

THE  hour  was  late  ;  the  fire  burned  low, 
The  Landlord's  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 
And  near  the  story's  end  a  deep 
Sonorous  sound  at  times  was  heard, 
As  when  the  distant  bagpipes  blow. 
At  this  all  laughed  ;  the  Landlord  stirred, 
As  one  awaking  from  a  swound, 
And,  gazing  anxiously  around. 
Protested  that  he  had  not  slept, 
But  only  shut  his  eyes,  and  kept, 
His  ears  attentive  to  each  word. 

Then  all  arose,  and  said  "Good  Night." 
Alone  remained  the  drowsy  Squire 
To  rake  the  embers  of  the  fire. 
And  quench  the  waning  parlor  light ; 
While  from  the  windows,  here  and  there, 
The  scattered  lamps  a  moment  gleamed, 
And  the  illumined  hostel  seemed 
The  constellation  of  the  Bear, 
Downward,  athwart  the  misty  air, 
Sinking  and  setting  toward  the  sun. 
Far  off  the  village  clock  struck  one. 


PART   SECOND, 


PRELUDE. 


A  'L^OLD,  uninterrupted  rain, 

rfhat  washed  each  southern  window-pane, 

And  made  a  river  of  the  road  ; 

A  sea  of  mist  that  overflowed 

The  house,  the  barns,  the  gilded  vane. 

And  drowned  the  upland  and  the  plain, 

Through  which  the  oak-trees,  broad  and  high, 

Like  phantom  ships  went  drifting  by  : 

And,  hidden  behind  a  watery  screen, 

The  sun  unseen,  or  only  seen 

As  a  faint  pallor  in  the  sky  ; — 

Thus  cold  and  colorless  and  gray, 

The  morn  of  that  autumnal  day, 

As  if  reluctant  to  begin, 

Dawned  on  the  silent. Sudbury  Inn, 

And  all  the  guests  that  in  it  lay. 


Full  late  they  slept.     They  did  not  hear 
The  challenge  of  Sir  Chanticleer, 
Who  on  the  empty  threshing-floor, 
Disdainful  of  the  rain  outside, 
Was  strutting  with  a  martial  stride, 
As  if  upon  his  thigh  he  wore 
The  famous  broadsword  of  the  Squire, 
And  said,  "  Behold  me,  and  admire  !  " 

Only  the  Poet  seemed  to  hear, 

In  drowse  or  dream,  more  near  and  near 

Across  the  border-land  of  sleep 

The  blowing  of  a  blithesome  ho».i, 

That  laughed  the  dismal  day  to  scorn  ; 

A  splash  of  hoofs  and  rush  of  wheels 

Through  sand  and  mire  like  stranding  keels, 

As  from  the  road  with  sudden  sweep 

The  Mail  drove  up  the  little  steep, 


208 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  stopped  beside  the  tavern  door  ; 
A  moment  stopped,  and  then  again 
With  crack  of  whip  and  bark  of  dog 
Plunged  forward  through  the  sea  of  fog, 
And  all  was  silent  as  before, — 
All  silent  save  the  dripping  rain. 

Then  one  by  one  the  guests  came  down, 
And  greeted  with  a  smile  the  Squire, 
Who  sat  before  the  parlor  fire, 
Reading  the  paper  fresh  from  town. 
First,  the  Sicilian,  like  a  bird, 
Before  his  form  appeared,  was  heard 
Whistling  and  singing  down  the  stair  ; 
Then  came  the  Student,  with  a  look 
As  placid  as  a  meadow-brook  ; 
The  Theologian,  still  perplexed 
With  thoughts  of  this  world  and  the  next ; 
The  Pnet  then,  as  one  who  seems 
Walking  in  visions  and  in  dreams  ; 
Then  the  Musician,  like  a  fair 
Hyperion  from  whose  golden  hair 
The  radiance  of  the  morning  streams  ; 
And  last  the  aromatic  Jew 
Of  Alicant,  who,  as  he  threw 
The  door  wide  open,  on  the  air 
Breathed  round  about  him  a  perfume 
Of  damask  roses  in  full  bloom, 
Making  a  garden  of  the  room. 

The  breakfast  ended,  each  pursued 
The  promptings  of  his  various  mood  ; 
Beside  the  tire  in  silence  smoked 
The  taciturn,  impassive  Jew, 
Lost  in  a  pleasant  re  very  ; 
While,  by  his  gravity  provoked, 
His  portrait  the  Sicilian  drew, 
And  wrote  beneath  it  "  Edrehi, 
At  the  Red  Horse  in  Sudbury." 

By  far  the  busiest  of  them  all, 

The  Theologian  in  the  hall 

Was  feeding  robins  in  a  cage, — 

Two  corpulent  and  lazy  birds, 

Vagrants  and  pilferers  at  best, 

If  one  might  trust  the  hostler's  words, 

Chief  instrument  of  their  arrest ; 

Two  poets  of  the  Golden  Age, 

Heirs  of  a  boundless  heritage 

Of  fields  and  orchards,  east  and  west, 

And  sunshine  of  long  summer  davs, 

Though  outlawed  now  and  dispossessed  ! — 

Such  was  the  Theologian's  phrase. 

Meanwhile  the  Student  held  discourse 

With  the  Musician,  on  the  source 

Of  all  the  legendary  lore 

Among  the  nations,  scattered  wide 

Like  silt  and  seaweed  by  the  force 

And  fluctuation  of  the  tide  ; 

The  tale  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 

With  change  of  place  and  change  of  name, 

Disguised,  transformed,  and  yet  the  same 

We  've  heard  a  hundred  times  before. 

The  Poet  at  the  window  mused, 

And  saw,  as  in  a  dream  confused, 

The  countenance  of  the  Sun,  discrowned, 

And  haggard  with  a  pale  despair. 

And  saw  the  cloud-rack  trail  and  drift 

Before  it,  and  the  trees  uplift 

Their  leafless  branches,  and  the  air 

Filled  with  the  arrows  of  the  rain, 

And  heard  amid  the  mist  below, 

Like  voices  of  distress  and  pain, 

That  haunt  the  thoughts  of  men  insane, 

The  fateful  cawings  of  the  crow. 

Then  down  the  road,  with  mud  besprent, 
And  drenched  with  rain  from  head  to  hoof. 
The  rain-drops  dripping  from  his  mane 


And  tail  as  from  a  pent-house  roof, 
A  jaded  horse,  his  head  down  bent, 
Passed  slowly,  limping  as  he  went. 

The  young  Sicilian — who  had  grown 
Impatient  longer  to  abide 
A  prisoner,  greatly  mortified 
To  see  completely  overthrown 
His  plans  for  angling  in  the  brook, 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  bridge  of  stone, 
To  wa.tcli  the  speckled  trout  glide  by, 
And  float  through  the  inverted  sky, 
Still  round  and  round  the  baited  hook — 
Now  paced  the  room  with  rapid  stride, 
And,  pausing  at  the  Poet's  side, 
Looked  forth,  and  saw  the  wretched  steed, 
And  said  :   "  Alas  for  human  greed, 
That  with  cold  hand  and  stony  eye 
Thus  turns  an  old  friend  out  to  die, 
Or  beg  his  food  from  gate  to  gate  ! 
This  brings  a  tale  into  my  mind, 
Which,  if  you  are  not  disinclined 
To  listen,  I  will  now  relate." 

All  gave  assent ;  all  wished  to  hear, 
Not  without  many  a  jest  and  jeer, 
The  story  of  a  spavined  steed  ; 
And  even  the  Student  with  the  rest 
Put  in  his  pleasant  little  jest 
Out  of  Malherbe,  that  Pegasus 
Is  but  a  horse  that  with  all  speed 
Bears  poets  to  the  hospital ; 
While  the  Sicilian,  self-possessed, 
After  a  moment's  interval 
Began  his  simple  story  thus. 


THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  BELL   OF   ATKI. 

AT  Atri  in  Abruzzo,  a  small  town 

Of  ancient  Roman  date,  but  scant  renown, 

One  of  those  little  places  that  have  run 

Half  up  the  hill,  beneath  a  blazing  sun, 

And  then  sat  down  to  rest,  as  if  to  say, 

"I  climb  no  farther  upward,  come  what  may," — 

The  Re  Giovanni,  now  unknown  to  fame, 

So  many  monarchs  since  have  borne  the  name, 

Had  a  great  bell  hung  in  the  market-place 

Beneath  a  roof,  projecting  some  small  space, 

By  way  of  shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain. 

Then  rode  he  through  the  streets  with  all   his 

train, 

And,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets  loud  and  long, 
Made  proclamation,  that  whenever  wrong 
Was  done  to  any  man,  he  should  but  ring 
The  great  bell  in  the  square,  and  he,  the  King, 
Would  cause  the  Syndic  to  decide  thereon. 
Such  was  the  proclamation  of  King  John. 

How  swift  the  happy  days  in  Atri  sped. 
What  wrongs  were  righted,  need  not  here  be  said. 
Suffice  it  that,  as  all  things  must  decay, 
The  hempen  rope  at  length  was  worn  away, 
Unravelled  at  the  end,  and,  strand  by  strand, 
Loosened  and  wasted  in  the  ringer's  hand, 
Till  one,  who  noted  this  in  passing  by, 
Mended  the  rope  with  braids  of  briony, 
So  that  the  leaves  and  tendrils  of  the  vine 
Hung  like  a  votive  garland  at  a  shrine. 

By  chance  it  happened  that  in  Atri  dwelt 
A  knight,  with  spur  on  heel  and  sword  in  belt, 
Who  loved  to  hunt  the  wild-boar  in  the  woods, 
Who  loved  his  falcons  with  their  crimson  hoods, 
Who  loved  his  hounds  and  horses,  and  all   sports 
And  prodigalities  of  camps  and  courts  ; — 
Loved,  or  had  loved  them  ;  for  at  last,  grown  old, 
His  only  passion  was  the  love  of  gold. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


209 


He  sold  his  horses,  sold  his  hawks  and  hounds, 
Rented  his  vineyards  and  his  garden-grounds, 
Kept  but  one  steed,  his  favorite  steed  of  all, 
To  starve  and  shiver  in  a  naked  stall, 
And  day  by  day  sat  brooding  in  his  chair, 
Devising  plans  how  best  to  hoard  and  spare. 

At  length  he  said  :   "  What  is  the  use  or  need 

To  keep  at  my  own  cost  this  lazy  steed, 

Kating  his  head  off' in  my  stables  here, 

When  rents  are  low  and  provender  is  dear  ? 

Let  him  go  fejd  upon  the  public  ways  ; 

I  want  him  only  for  the  holidays. " 

So  the  old  steed  was  turned  into  the  heat 

Of  the  long,  lonely,  silent,  shadeless  street ; 

And  wandered  in  suburban  lanes  forlorn, 

Barked  at  by  dogs,  and  torn  by  brier  and  thorn. 

One  afternoon,  as  in  that  sultry  clime 
It  is  the  custom  in  the  summer  time, 
With  bolted  doors  and  window  -shutters  closed, 
The  inhabitants  of  Atri  slept  or  dozed  ; 
When  suddenly  upon  their  senses  fell 
The  loud  alarum  of  the  accusing  bell  ! 
The  Syndic  started  from  his  deep  repose, 
Turned  on  his  couch,  and  listened,  and  then  rose 
And  donned  his  robes,  and  with  reluctant  pace 
Went  panting  forth  into  the  market-place, 
Where  the  great  bell  upon  its  cross-beam  swung 
Reiterating  with  persistent  tongue, 
In  half -articulate  jargon,  the  old  song  : 
"  Some   one   hath   done   a   wrong,    hath   done  a 
wrong  !  " 

But  ere  he  reached  the  belfry's  light  arcade 
He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  beneath  its  shade, 
No  shape  of  human  form  of  woman  born, 
But  a  poor  steed  dejected  and  forlorn, 
Who  with  uplifted  head  and  eager  eye 
Was  tugging  at  the  vines  of  briony. 
"  Domeneddio  !  "  cried  the  Syndic  straight, 
"  This  is  the  Knight  of  Atri's  steed  of  state  ! 
He  calls  for  justice,  being  sore  distressed, 
And  pleads  his  cause  as  loudly  as  the  best.'' 

Meanwhile  from  street  and  lane  a  noisy  crowd 

Had  rolled  together  like  a  summer  cloud, 

And  told  the  story  of  the  wretched  beast 

In  five-and-twenty  different  ways  at  least, 

With  much  gesticulation  and  appeal 

To  heathen  gods,  in  their  excessive  zeal. 

The  Knight  was  called  and  questioned  ;  in  reply 

Did  not  confess  the  fact,  did  not  deny  ; 

Treated  the  matter  as  a  pleasant  jest, 

And  sat  at  naught  the  Syndic  and  the  rest, 

Maintaining,  in  an  angry  undertone, 

That  he  should  do  what  pleased  him  with  his  own. 

And  thereupon  the  Syndic  gravely  read 
The  proclamation  of  the  King  ;  then  said  : 
"Pride  goeth  forth  on  horseback  grand  and  gay, 
But  cometh  back  on  foot,  and  begs  its  way  ; 
Fame  is  the  fragrance  of  heroic  deeds, 
O?  flowers  of  chivalry  and  not  of  weeds  ! 
These  are  familiar  proverbs  ;  but  I  fear 
They  never  yet  have  reached  your  knightly  ear. 
What  fair  renown,  what  honor,  what  repute 
Can  come  to  you  from  starving  this  poor  brute  V 
He  who  serves  well  and  speaks  not,  merits  more 
Than  they  who  clamor  loudest  at  the  door. 
Therefore  the  law  decrees  that  as  this  steed 
Served  you  in  youth,  henceforth  you  shall  take 

heed 

To  comfort  his  old  age,  and  to  provide 
Shelter  in  stall,  and  food  and  field  beside. 

The  Knight  withdrew  abashed  ;  the  people  all 

Led  home  the  steed  in  triumph  to  his  stall. 

The  King   heard  uad  approved,   and  laughed  in 

glee, 
And  cried  aloud  :   ' '  Right  well  it  pleaseth  me ! 

14 


Church-bells  at  best  but  ring  us  to  the  door  ; 
But  go  not  in  to  mass  ;  my  bell  doth  more  : 
It  cometh  into  court  and  pleads  the  cause 
Of  creatures  dumb  and  unknown  to  the  laws ; 
And  this  shall  make,  in  every  Christian  clime, 
The  Bell  of  Atri  famous  for  all  time." 


INTERLUDE. 

' '  YES,  well  your  story  pleads  the  cause 

Of  those  dumb  mouths  that  have  no  speech, 

Only  a  cry  f  rom  each  to  each 

In  its  own  kind,  with  its  own  laws ; 

Something  that  is  beyond  the  reach 

Of  human  power  to  learn  or  teach, — 

An  inarticulate  moan  of  pain, 

Like  the  immeasurable  main 

Breaking  upon  an  unknown  beach." 

Thus  spake  the  Poet  with  a  sigh  ; 
Then  added,  with  impassioned  cry, 
As  one  who  feels  the  words  he  speaks, 
The  color  flushing  in  his  cheeks, 
The  fervor  burning  in  his  eye  : 
"  Among  the  noblest  in  the  land, 
Though  he  may  count  himself  the  least, 
That  man  I  honor  and  revere 
Who  without  favor,  without  fear, 
In  the  great  city  dares  to  stand 
The  friend  of  every  friendless  beast, 
And  tames  with  his  unflinching  hand 
The  brutes  that  wear  our  form  and  face, 
The  were-wolves  of  the  human  race  !  " 
Then  paused,  and  waited  with  a  frown, 
Like  some  old  champion  of  romance, 
Who,  having  thrown  his  gauntlet  down, 
Expectant  leans  upon  his  lance  ; 
But  neither  Knight  nor  Squire  is  found 
To  raise  the  gauntlet  from  the  ground, 
And  try  with  him  the  battle's  chance. 

"Wake  from  your  dreams,  O  Edrehi ! 

Or  dreaming  speak  to  us,  and  make 

A  feint  of  being  half  awake, 

And  tell  us  what  your  dreams  may  be, 

Out  of  the  hazy  atmosphere 

Of  do; id-land  deign  to  reappear 

Among  us  in  this  Wayside  Inn  ; 

Tell  us  what  visions  and  what  scenes 

Illuminate  the  dark  ravines 

In  which  you  grope  your  way.     Begin  ! '' 

Thus  the  Sicilian  spake.     The  Jew 
Made  no  reply,  but  only  smiled, 
As  men  unto  a  wayward  child, 
Not  knowing  what  to  answer,  do. 
As  from  a  cavern's  mouth,  o'ergro.vu 
With  moss  and  intertangled  vines. 
A  streamlet  leaps  into  the  light 
And  murmurs  over  root  and  stone 
In  a  melodious  undertone  ; 
Or  as  amid  the  noonday  night 
Of  sombre  and  wind-haunted  pines, 
There  runs  a  sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 
So  from  his  bearded  lips  there  came 
A  melody  without  a  name, 
A  song,  a  tale,  a  history, 
Or  whatsoever  it  may  be. 
Writ  and  recorded  in  these  lines. 


THE   SPANISH  JEW'S    TALE. 

KAMBALU. 

INTO  the  city  of  Kambalu, 

By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan, 

At  the  head  of  his  dusty  caravan, 


210 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Laden  with  treasure  from  realms  afar, 
Baldacca  and  Kelat  and  Kandahar, 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alau. 

The  Khan  from  his  palace -window  gazed, 
And  saw  in  the  thronging  street  beneath, 
In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  that  blazed 
Through  the  clouds  of  dust  by  the  caravan  raised, 
The  flash  of  harness  and  jewelled  sheath, 
And  the  shining  scymitars  of  the  guard, 
And  the  weary  camels  that  bared  their  teeth, 
As  they  passed  and  passed  through  the  gates  un 
barred 
Into  the  shade  of  the  palace-yard. 

Thus  into  the  city  of  Kambalu 

Rode  the  great  captain  Alau  ; 

And  he  stood  before  the  Khan,  and  said  : 

"  The  enemies  of  my  lord  are  dead  ; 

All  the  Kalifs  of  all  the  West 

Bow  and  obey  thy  least  behest ; 

The  plains  are  dark  with  the  mulberry -trees, 

The  weavers  are  busy  in  Samarcand, 

The  miners  are  sifting  the  golden  sand, 

The  divers  plunging  for  pearls  in  the  seas, 

And  peace  and  plenty  are  in  the  land. 

"  Baldacca's  Kalif,  and  he  alone, 

Rose  in  revolt  against  thy  throne  : 

His  treasures  are  at  thy  palace-door. 

With  the  swords  and  the  shawls  and  the  jewels 

he  wore ; 
His  body  is  dust  o'er  the  desert  blown. 

"  A  mile  outside  of  Baldacca's  gate 

I  left  my  forces  to  lie  in  wait, 

Concealed  by  forests  and  hillocks  of  sand. 

And  forward  dashed  with  a  handful  of  men, 

To  lure  the  old  tiger  from  his  den 

Into  the  ambush  I  had  planned. 

Ere  we  reached  the  town  the  alarm  was  spread, 

For  we  heard  the  sound  of  gongs  from  within ; 

And  with  clash  of  cymbals  and  warlike  din 

The  gates  swung  wide  ;  and  we  turned  and  fled  ; 

And  the  garrison  sallied  forth  and  pursued, 

With  the  gray  old  Kalif  at  their  head, 

And  above  them  the  banner  of  Mohammed : 

So  we  snared  them  all,  and  the  town  was  subdued. 

"  As  in  at  the  gate  we  rode,  behold, 

A  tower  that  is  called  the  Tower  of  Gold  ! 

For  there  the  Kalif  had  hidden  his  wealth, 

Heaped  and  hoarded  and  piled  on  high, 

Like  sacks  of  wheat  in  a  granary  ; 

And  thither  the  miser  crept  by  stealth 

To  feel  of  the  gold  that  gave  him  health, 

And  to  gaze  and  gloat  with  his  hungry  eye 

On  jewels  that  gleamed  like  a  glow-worm's  spark, 

Or  the  eyes  of  a  panther  in  the  dark. 

"  I  said  to  the  Kalif :   '  Thou  art  old, 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  so  much  gold. 

Thou  shouldst  not  have  heaped  and  hidden  it  here, 

Till  the  breath  of  battle  was  hot  and  near, 

But  have  sown  through  the   land   these   useless 

hoards 

To  spring  into  shinir.g  blades  of  swords, 
And  keep  thine  honor  sweet  and  clear. 
These  grains  of  gold  are  not  grains  of  wheat ; 
These  bars  of  silver  thou  canst  not  eat ; 
These  jewels  and  pearls  and  precious  stones 
Cannot  cure  the  aches  in  thy  bones, 
Nor  keep  the  feet  of  Death  one  hour 
From  climbing  the  stairways  of  thy  tower  ! ' 

' '  Then  into  his  dungeon  I  locked  the  drone, 
And  left  him  to  feed  there  all  alone 
In  the  honey-cells  of  his  golden  hive  : 
Never  a  prayer,  nor  a  cry,  nor  a  groan 
Was  heard  from  those  massive  walls  of  stone, 
Nor  again  was  the  Kalif  seen  alive  ! 


"  When  at  last  we  unlocked  the  door, 

We  found  him  dead  upon  the  floor  ; 

The  rings  had  dropped  from  his  withered  hands, 

His  teeth  were  like  bones  in  the  desert  sands  : 

Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died ; 

And  as  he  lay  there,  he  appeared 

A  statue  of  gold  with  a  silver  beard, 

His  arms  outstretched  as  if  crucified." 

This  is  the  story,  strange  and  true, 
That  the  great  captain  Alau 
Told  to  his  brother  the  Tartar  Khan, 
When  he  rode  that  day  into  Kambalu 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan. 


INTERLUDE. 

"  I  TuoroHT  before  your  tale  began," 
The  Student  murmured,  "we  should  have 
Some  legend  written  by  Judah  Rav 
In  his  Gemara  of  Babylon  ; 
Or  something  from  the  Gulistan, — 
The  tale  of  the  Cazy  of  Hamadan, 
Or  of  that  King  of  Khorasan 
Who  saw  in  dreams  the  eyes  of  one 
That  had  a  hundred  years  been  dead 
Still  moving  restless  in  his  head, 
Undimmed,  and  gleaming  with  the  lust 
Of  power,  though  all  the  rest  was  dust. 

"  But  lo  !  your  glittering  caravan 
On  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan 
Hath  led  us  farther  to  the  East 
Into  the  regions  of  Cathay. 
Spite  of  your  Kalif  and  his  gold, 
Pleasant  has  been  the  tale  you  told, 
And  full  of  color ;  that  at  least 
No  one  will  question  or  gainsay. 
And  yet  on  such  a  dismal  day 
We  need  a  merrier  tale  to  clear 
The  dark  and  heavy  atmosphere. 
So  listen,  Lordlings,  while  I  tell, 
Without  a  preface,  what  befell 
A  simple  cobbler,  in  the  year — 
No  matter  ;  it  was  long  ago  ; 
And  that  is  all  we  need  to  know." 


THE  STUDENT'S  TALE. 

THE   COBBLER   OF    HAGENAU. 

I  TRUST  that  somewhere  and  somehow 
You  all  have  heard  of  Hagenau, 
A  quiet,  quaint,  and  ancient  town 
Among  the  green  Alsatian  hills, 
A  place  of  valleys,  streams,  and  mills, 
Where  Barbarossa's  castle,  brown 
With  rust  of  centuries,  still  looks  down 
On  the  broad,  drowsy  land  below, — 
On  shadowy  forests  filled  with  game, 
And  the  blue  river  winding  slow 
Through  meadows,  where  the  hedges  grow 
That  give  this  little  town  its  name. 

It  happened  in  the  good  old  times. 
While  yet  the  Master-singers  filled 
The  noisy  workshop  and  the  guild 
With  various  melodies  and  rhymes, 
That  here  in  Hagenau  there  dwelt 
A  cobbler, — one  who  loved  debate, 
And,  arguing  from  a  postulate, 
Would  say  what  others  only  felt  ; 
A  man  of  forecast  and  of  thrift, 
And  of  a  shrewd  and  careful  mind 
In  this  world's  business,  but  inclined 
Somewhat  to  let  the  next  world  drift. 

Hans  Sachs  with  vast  delight  he  read, 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


2J1 


And  Regenbogen's  rhymes  of  love, 

For  their  poetic  fame  had  spread 

Even  to  the  town  of  Hagenau  ; 

And  some  Quick  Melody  of  the  Plough, 

Or  Double  Harmony  of  the  Dove, 

Was  always  running  in  his  head. 

He  kept,  moreover,  at  his  side, 

Among  his  leathers  and  his  tools, 

Reynard  the  Fox,  the  Ship  of  Fouls, 

Or  Eulenspiegel,  open  wide ; 

With  these  he  was  much  edified  : 

He  thought  them  wiser  than  the  Schools. 

His  good  wife,  full  of  godly  fear. 

Liked  not  these  worldly  themes  to  hear  ; 

The  Psalter  was  her  book  of  songs ; 

The  only  music  to  her  ear 

Was  that  which  to  the  Church  belongs, 

When  the  loud  choir  on  Sunday  chanted, 

And  the  two  angels  carved  in  wood, 

That  by  the  windy  organ  stood, 

Blew  on  their  trumpets  loud  and  clear, 

And  all  the  echoes,  far  and  near, 

Gibbered  as  if  the  church  were  haunted. 

Outside  his  door,  one  afternoon, 
This  humble  votary  of  the  muse 
Sat  in  the  narrow  strip  of  shade 
By  a  projecting  cornice  made. 
Mending  the  Burgomaster's  shoes, 
And  singing  a  familiar  tune  : 

''  Our  ingress  into  the  world 

Was  naked  and  bare  ; 
Our  progress  through  the  world 

Is  trouble  and  care  ; 
Our  egress  from  the  world 

Will  be  nobody  knows  where: 
But  if  we  do  well  here 

We  shall  do  well  there  ; 
And  I  could  tell  you  no  more. 

Should  I  preach  a  whole  year !  " 

Thus  sang  the  cobbler  at  his  work  ; 

And  with  his  gestures  marked  the  time 

Closing  together  with  a  jerk 

Of  his  waxed  thread  the  stitch  and  rhyme. 

Meanwhile  his  quiet  little  dame 

Was  leaning  o'er  the  window-sill, 

Eager,  excited,  but  mouse-still, 

Gazing  impatiently  to  see 

What  the  great  throng  of  folk  might  be 

That  onward  in  procession  came. 

Along  the  unfrequented  street. 

With  horns  that  blew,  and  drums  that  beat, 

And  banners  flying  and  the  flame 

Of  tapers,  and,  at  times,  the  sweet 

Voices  of  nuns  ;  and  as  they  sang 

Suddenly  all  the  church-bells  rang. 

In  a  gay  coach,  above  the  crowd, 
There  sat  a  monk  in  ample  hood, 
Who  with  his  right  hand  held  aloft 
A  red  and  ponderous  cross  of  wood, 
To  which  at  times  he  meekly  bowed. 
In  front  three  horsemen  rode,  and  oft, 
With  voice  and  air  importunate, 
A  boisterous  herald  cried  aloud  : 
"  The  grace  of  God  is  at  your  gate  !  " 
So  onward  to  the  church  they  passed. 

The  cobbler  slowly  turned  his  last, 
And,  wagging  his  sagacious  head, 
Unto  his  kneeling  housewife  said  : 
"  'T  is  the  monk  Tetzel.     I  have  heard 
The  cawings  of  that  reverend  bird. 
Don't  let  him  cheat  you  of  your  gold ; 
Indulgence  is  not  bought  and  sold." 

The  church  of  Hagenau,  that  night, 
Was  full  of  people,  full  of  light ; 


An  odor  of  incense  filled  the  air. 

The  priest  intoned,  the  organ  groaned 

Its  inarticulate  despair ; 

The  candles  on  the  altar  blazed, 

And  full  in  front  of  it  upraised 

The  red  cross  stood  against  the  glare. 

Below,  upon  the  altar-rail 

Indulgences  were  set  to  sale, 

Like  ballads  at  a  country  fair. 

A  heavy  strong-box,  iron-bound 

And  carved  with  many  a  quaint  device, 

Received,  with  a  melodious  sound, 

The  coin  that  purchased  Paradise. 


Then  from  the  pulpit  overhead, 

Tef-zel  the  monk,  witli  fiery  glow, 

Thundered  upon  the  crowd  below. 

"  Good  people  all.  draw  near  !  "  he  said  ; 

'•  Purchase  these  letters,  signed  and  sealed 

By  which  all  sins,  though  unrevealed 

And  unrepented,  are  forgiven  ! 

Count  but  the  gain,  count  not  the  loss  I 

Your  gold  and  silver  are  but  dross, 

And  yet  they  pave  the  way  to  heaven. 

I  hear  your  mothers  and  your  sires 

Cry  from  their  purgatorial  fires, 

And  will  ye  not  their  ransom  pay  ? 

0  senseless  people  !  when  the  gate 
Of  heaven  is  open,  will  you  wait  ? 
Will  ye  not  enter  in  to-day  V 

To  -morrow  it  will  be  too  late  ; 

1  shall  be  gone  upon  my  way. 

Make  haste  !  bring  money  \vhile  ye  may  '.  ' 


The  women  shuddered,  and  turned  pale  ; 

Allured  by  hope  or  driven  by  fear, 

With  many  a  sob  and  many  a  tear, 

All  crowded  to  the  altar-rail. 

Pieces  of  silver  and  of  gold 

Into  the  tinkling  strong-box  fell 

L:ke  pebbles  dropped  into  a  well; 

And  soon  the  ballads  were  all  sold. 

The  cobbler's  wife  among  the  rest 

Slipped  into  the  capacious  chest 

A  golden  florin  ;  then  withdrew, 

Hiding  the  paper  in  her  breast ; 

And  homeward  through  the  darkness  went 

Comforted,  quieted,  content; 

She  did  not  walk,  she  rather  flew, 

A  dove  that  settles  to  her  nest, 

When  some  appalling  bird  of  prey 

That  scared  her  has  been  driven  away. 


The  days  went  by,  the  monk  was  gone, 
The  summer  passed,  the  winter  came  ; 
Though  seasons  changed,  yet  still  the  same 
The  daily  round  of  life  went  on  ; 
The  daily  round  of  household  care, 
The  narrow  life  of  toil  and  prayer. 
But  in  her  heart  the  cobbler's  dame 
Had  now  a  treasure  beyond  price, 
A  secret  joy  without  a  name, 
The  certainty  of  Paradise. 
Alas,  alas  !  Dust  unto  dust ! 
Before  the  winter  wore  away. 
Her  body  in  the  churchyard  lay. 
Her  patient  soul  was  with  the  Just  ! 
After  her  death,  among  those  things 
That  even  the  poor  preserve  with  care, — 
Some  little  trinkets  and  cheap  rings, 
A  locket  with  her  mother's  hair, 
Her  wedding  gown,  the  faded  flowers 
She  wore  upon  her  wedding  day, — 
Among  these  memories  of  past  hours, 
That  so  much  of  the  heart  reveal, 
Carefully  kept  and  put  away, 
The  Letter  of  Indulgence  lay 
Folded,  with  signature  and  seal. 


212 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Meanwhile  the  Priest,  aggrieved  and  pained, 

Waited  and  wondered  that  no  word 

Of  mass  or  requiem  he  heard, 

As  by  the  Holy  Church  ordained  : 

Then  to  the  Magistrate  complained. 

That  as  this  woman  had  been  dead 

A  week  or  more,  and  no  mass  said, 

It  was  rank  heresy,  or  at  least 

Contempt  of  Church  ;  thus  said  the  Priest ; 

And  straight  the  cobbler  was  arraigned. 

He  came,  confiding  in  his  cause, 

But  rather  doubtful  of  the  laws. 

The  Justice  from  his  elbow-chair 

Gave  him  a  look  that  seemed  to  say  : 

"Thou  standest  before  a  Magistrate, 

Therefore  do  not  prevaricate  !  " 

Then  asked  him  in  a  business  way, 

Kindly  but  cold  :   "Is  thy  wife  dead  ?  " 

The  cobbler  meekly  bowed  his  head  ; 

"She  is,"  came  struggling  from  his  throat 

Scarce  audibly.     The  Justice  wrote 

The  words  down  in  a  book,  and  then 

Continued,  as  he  raised  his  pen  : 

''  She  is  ;  and  hath  a  mass  been  said 

For  the  salvation  of  her  soul  ? 

Come,  speak  the  truth  !  confess  the  whole  !  " 

The  cobbler  without  pause  replied  : 

"Of  mass  or  prayer  there  was  no  need  ; 

For  at  the  moment  when  she  died 

Her  soul  was  with  the  glorified  i  " 

And  from  his  pocket  with  all  speed 

He  drew  the  priestly  title-deed, 

And  prayed  the  Justice  he  would  read. 

The  Justice  read,  amused,  amazed  ; 
And  as  he  read  his  mirth  increased ; 
At  times  his  shaggy  brows  he  raised, 
Now  wondering  at  the  cobbler  gazed, 
Now  archf  ully  at  the  angry  Priest. 
"  From  all  excesses,  sins,  and  crimes 
Thou  hast  committed  in  past  times 
Thee  I  absolve  !     And  f utherihore, 
Purified  from  all  earthly  taints, 
To  the  communion  of  the  Saints 
And  to  the  sacraments  restore ! 
All  stains  of  weakness,  and  all  trace 
Of  shame  and  censure  I  efface  ; 
Remit  the  pains  thou  shouldst  endure, 
And  make  thee  innocent  and  pure, 
So  that  in  dying,  unto  thee 
The  gates  of  heaven  shall  open  be  ! 
Though  long  thou  livest,  yet  this  grace 
Until  the  moment  of  thy  death 
Unchangeable  continueth ! " 

Then  said  he  to  the  Priest :  "I  find 
This  document  is  duly  signed 
Brother  John  Tetzel,  his  own  hand. 
At  all  tribunals  in  the  land 
In  evidence  it  may  be  used  ; 
Therefore  acquitted  is  the  accused." 
Then  to  the  cobbler  turned  :  "  My  friend, 
Pray  tell  me,  didst  thou  ever  read 
Reynard  the  Fox  ?  " — "  O  yes,  indeed  !  " — 
"  I  thought  so.     Don't  forget  the  end." 


INTERLUDE. 

"  WHAT  was  the  end  ?    I  am  ashamed 
Not  to  remember  Reynard's  fate  ; 
I  have  not  read  the  book  of  late  ; 
Was  he  not  hanged  ?  "  the  Poet  said. 
The  Student  gravely  shook  his  head, 
And  answered  :   "  You  exaggerate. 
There  was  a  tournament  proclaimed, 
And  Reynard  fought  with  Isegrim 
The  Wolf,  and  having  vanquished  him, 
Rose  to  high  honor  in  the  State, 
And  Keeper  of  the  Seals  was  named  !  " 


At  this  the  gay  Sicilian  laughed  : 
"Fight  fire  with  fire,  and  craft  with  craft 
Successful  cunning  seems  to  be 
The  moral  of  your  tale,"  said  he. 
'•  Mine  had  a  better,  and  the  Jew's 
Had  none  at  all,  that  I  could  see  ; 
His  aim  was  only  to  amuse." 

Meanwhile  from  out  its  ebon  case 

His  violin  the  Minstrel  drew, 

And  having  tuned  its  strings  anew, 

Now  held  it  close  in  his  embrace. 

And  poising  in  his  outstretched  hand 

The  bow,  like  a  magician's  wand, 

He  paused,  and  said,  with  beaming  face  : 

"  Last  night  my  story  was  too  long  ; 

To-day  I  give  you  but  a  song, 

An  old  tradition  of  the  North  ; 

But  first,  to  put  you  in  the  mood, 

I  will  a  little  while  prelude, 

And  from  this  instrument  draw  forth 

Something  by  way  of  overture. " 

He  played ;  at  first  the  tones  were  pure 

And  tender  as  a  summer  night, 

The  full  moon  climbing  to  her  height, 

The  sob  and  ripple  of  the  seas, 

The  flapping  of  an  idle  sail  ; 

And  then  by  sudden  and  sharp  degrees 

The  multiplied,  wild  harmonies 

Freshened  and  burst  into  a  gale  ; 

A  tempest  howling  through  the  dark, 

A  crasn  as  of  some  shipwrecked  bark, 

A  loud  and  melancholy  wail. 

Such  was  the  prelude  to  the  tale 
Told  by  the  Minstrel ;  and  at  times 
He  paused  amid  its  varying  rhymes, 
And  at  each  pause  again  broke  in 
The  music  of  his  violin, 
With  tones  of  sweetness  or  of  fear, 
Movements  of  trouble  or  of  calm, 
Creating  their  own  atmosphere  ; 
As  sitting  in  a  church  we  hear 
Between  the  verses  of  the  psalm 
The  organ  playing  soft  and  clear, 
Or  thundering  on  the  startled  ear. 


THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    CAKMILHAN. 


AT  Stralsund,  by  the  Baltic  Sea, 

Within  the  sandy  bar. 
At  sunset  of  a  summer's  day, 
Ready  for  sea,  at  anchor  lay 

The  good  ship  Valdemar. 

The  sunbeams  danced  upon  the  waves, 

And  played  along  her  side  ; 
And  through  the  cabin  windows  streamed 
In  ripples  of  golden  light,  that  seemed 

The  ripple  of  the  tide. 

There  sat  the  captain  with  his  friends, 

Old  skippers  brown  and  hale. 
Who  smoked  and  grumbled  o'er  their  grog, 
And  talked  of  iceberg  and  of  fog, 

Of  calm  and  storm  and  gale. 

And  one  was  spinning  a  sailor's  yarn 

About  Klaboterman, 
The  Kobold  of  the  sea  ;  a  spright 
Invisible  to  mortal  sight, 

Who  o'er  the  rigging  ran. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


213 


Sometimes  he  hammered  in  the  hold, 

Sometimes  upon  the  mast, 
Sometimes  abeam,  sometimes  abaft, 
Or  at  the  bows  he  sang  and  laughed, 

And  made  all  tight  and  fast. 

He  helped  the  sailors  at  their  work, 

And  toiled  with  jovial  din  ; 
He  helped  them  hoist  and  reef  the  sails, 
He  helped  them  stow  the  casks  and  bales, 

And  heave  the  anchor  in. 

But  woelmto  the  lazy  louts, 

The  idlers  of  the  crew  ; 
Them  to  torment  was  his  delight, 
And  worry  them  by  day  and  night, 

And  pinch  them  black  and  blue. 

And  woe  to  him  whose  mortal  eyes 

Klaboterman  behold. 
It  is  a  certain  sign  of  death  !  — 
The  cabin-boy  here  held  his  breath, 

He  felt  his  blood  run  cold. 


THE  jolly  skipper  paused  awhile, 

And  then  again  began  ; 
"  There  is  a  Spectre  Ship."  quoth  he, 
"A  ship  of  the  Dead  that  sails  the  sea, 

And  is  called  the  Carmilhan. 

"  A  ghostly  ship,  with  a  ghostly  crew, 

In  tempest  she  appears  ; 
And  before  the  gale,  or  against  the  gale, 
She  sails  without  a  rag  of  sail, 

Without  a  helmsman  steers. 

"She  haunts  the  Atlantic  north  and  south, 

But  mostly  the  mid-sea, 
Where  three  great  rocks  rise  bleak  and  bare 
Like  furnace-chimneys  in  the  air, 

And  are  called  the  Chimneys  Three. 

''  And  ill  betide  the  luckless  ship 

That  meets  the  Carmilhan  ; 
Over  her  decks  the  seas  will  leap, 
'She  must  go  down  into  the  deep, 

And  perish  mouse  and  man." 

The  captain  of  the  Valdemar 

Laughed  loud  with  merry  heart. 
"  I  should  like  to  see  this  ship,"  said  he  ; 
"I  should  like  to  find  these  Chimneys  Three, 

That  are  marked  down  in  the  chart. 

"I  have  sailed  right  over  the  spot,"  he  said, 

''  With  a  good  stiff  breeze  behind, 
When  the  sea  was  blue,  and  the  sky  was  clear, — 
You  can  follow   my    course   by   these   pinholes 
here, — 

And  never  a  rock  could  find." 

And  then  he  swore  a  dreadful  oath, 

He  swore  by  the. Kingdoms  Three, 
That,  should  he  meet  the  Carmilhan, 
He  would  run  her  down,  although  he  ran 

Right  into  Eternity  ! 

All  this,  while  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  cabin-boy  had  heard  ; 
He  lingered  at  the  door  to  hear, 
And  drank  in  all  with  greedy  ear, 

And  pondered  every  word. 

He  was  a  simple  country  lad, 

But  of  a  roving  mind. 
"  O,  it  must  be  like  heaven,"  thought  he, 
"  Those  far-off  foreign  lands  to  see, 

And  fortune  seek  and  find  !  " 


But  in  the  fo'castle,  when  he  heard 

The  mariners  blaspheme, 
He  thought  of  home,  he  thought  of  God, 
And  his  mother  under  the  churchyard  sod, 

And  wished  it  were  a  dream. 

One  friend  on  board  that  ship  had  he  ; 

'T  was  the  Klaboterman, 
Who  saw  the  Bible  in  his  chest, 
And  made  a  sign  upon  his  breast, 

All  evil  things  to  ban. 


THE  cabin  windows  have  grown  blank 

As  eyeballs  of  the  dead  ; 
No  more  the  glancing  sunbeams  burn 
On  the  gilt  letters  of  the  stern, 

But  on  the  figure-head  ; 

On  Valdemar  Victorious, 

Who  looketh  with  disdain 
To  see  his  image  in  the  tide 
Dismembered  float  from  side  to  side, 

And  reunite  again. 

"  It  is  the  wind,"  those  skippers  said, 

"  That  swings  the  vessel  so  , 
It  is  the  wind  ;  it  freshens  fast, 
'T  is  time  to  say  farewell  at  last, 
'T  is  time  for  us  to  go." 

They  shook  the  captain  by  the  hand, 

"  Good  luck  !  good  luck  !  "  they  cried; 
Each  face  was  like  the  setting  sun, 
As,  broad  and  red,  they  one  by  one 
Went  o'er  the  vessel's  side. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  full  moon  rose, 

Serene  o'er  field  and  flood  ; 
And  all  the  winding  creeks  and  bays 
And  broad  sea-meadows  seemed  ablaze, 

The  sky  was  red  as  blood. 

The  southwest  wind  blew  fresh  and  fair, 

As  fair  as  wind  could  be  ; 
Bound  for  Odessa,  o'er  the  bar, 
With  all  sail  set  the  Valdemar 

Went  proudly  out  to  sea. 

The  lovely  moon  climbs  up  the  sky 

As  one  who  walks  in  dreams ; 
A  tower  of  marble  in  her  light, 
A  wall  of  black,  a  wall  of  white, 
The  stately  vessel  seems. 

Low  down  upon  the  sandy  coast 

The  lights  begin  to  burn  ; 
And  now,  uplifted  high  in  air, 
They  kindle  with  a  fiercer  glare, 

And  now  drop  far  astern. 

The  dawn  appears,  the  land  is  gone, 

The  sea  is  all  around  ; 
Then  on  each  hand  low  hills  of  sand 
Emerge  and  form  another  land  ; 

She  steereth  through  the  Sound. 

Through  Kattegat  and  Sl:a  jer-rack 

She  flitteth  like  a  ghost ; 
By  day  and  night,  by  night  and  day, 
She  bounds,  she  flies  upon  her  way 

Along  the  English  coast. 

Cape  Finisterre  is  drawing  near, 

Cape  Finisterre  is  past ; 
Into  the  opett  ocean  stream 
She  floats,  the  vision  of  a  dream 

Too  beautiful  to  last. 


914 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Suns  rise  and  set,  and  rise,  and  yet 
There  is  no  land  in  sight ; 

The  liquid  planets  overhead 

Burn  brighter  now  the  moon  is  dead, 
And  longer  stays  the  night. 


AND  now  along  the  horizon's  edge 

Mountains  of  cloud  uprose. 
Black  as  with  forests  underneath, 
Above  their  sharp  and  jagged  teeth 

Were  white  as  drifted  snows. 

Unseen  behind  them  sank  the  sun, 

But  flushed  each  snowy  peak 
A  little  while  with  rosy  light 
That  faded  slowly  from  the  sight 

As  blushes  from  the  cheek. 

Black  grew  the  sky, — all  black,  all  black; 

The  clouds  were  everywhere  ; 
There  was  a  feeling  of  suspense 
In  nature,  a  mysterious  sense 

Of  terror  in  the  air. 

And  all  on  board  the  Valdemar 

Was  still  as  still  could  be ; 
Save  when  the  dismal  ship-bell  tolled, 
As  ever  and  anon  she  rolled, 

And  lurched  into  the  sea. 

The  captain  up  and  down  the  deck 

Went  striding  to  and  fro : 
Now  watched  the  compass  at  the  wheel, 
Now  lifted  up  his  hand  to  feel 

Which  way  the  wind  might  blow. 

And  now  he  looked  up  at  the  sails, 

And  now  upon  the  deep ; 
In  every  fibre  of  his  frame 
He  felt  the  storm  before  it  came, 

He  had  no  thought  of  sleep. 

Eight  bells  !  and  suddenly  abaft, 

With  a  great  rush  of  rain. 
Making  the  ocean  white  with  spume, 
In  darkness  like  the  day  of  doom, 

On  came  the  hurricane. 

The  lightning  flashed  from  cloud  to  cloud, 

And  rent  the  sky  in  two  ; 
A  jagged  flame,  a  single  jet 
Of  white  tire,  like  a  bayonet, 

That  pierced  the  eyeballs  througk 

Then  all  around  was  dark  again, 

And  blacker  than  before  ; 
But  in  that  single  flash  of  light 
He  had  beheld  a  fearful  sight, 

And  thought  of  the  oath  he  swore. 

For  right  ahead  lay  the  Ship  of  the  Dead, 

The  ghostly  Carmilhan  ! 

Her  masts  were  stripped,  her  yards  were  bare, 
And  on  her  bowsprit,  poised  in  air, 

Sat  the  Klaboterman. 

Her  crew  of  ghosts  was  all  on  deck 

Or  clambering  up  the  shrouds ; 
The  boatswain's  whistle,  the  captain's  hail, 
Were  like  the  piping  of  the  gale, 

And  thunder  in  the  clouds. 

And  close  behind  the  Carmilhan 

There  rose  up  from  the  sea, 
As  from  a  foundered  ship  of  stone,    • 
Three  bare  and  splintered  masts  alone  : 

They  were  the  Chimneys  Three. 


And  onward  dashed  the  Valdemar 

And  leaped  into  the  dark  ; 
A  denser  mist,  a  colder  blast, 
A  little  shudder,  and  she  had  passed 

Right  through  the  Phantom  Bark. 

She  cleft  in  twain  the  shadowy  hulk, 

But  cleft  it  unaware  ; 
As  when,  careering  to  her  nest, 
The  sea-gull  severs  with  her  breast 

The  unresisting  air. 

Again  the  lightning  flashed  ;  again         .« 

They  saw  the  Carmilhau, 
Whole  as  before  in  hull  and  spar ; 
But  now  on  board  of  the  Valdemar 

Stood  the  Klaboterman. 

|  And  they  all  knew  their  doom  was  sealed, ; 

They  knew  that  death  was  near ; 
Some  prayed  who  never  prayed  before, 
And  some  they  wept,  and  some  they  swore, 
And  some  were  mute  with  fear. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  a  shock, 

And  louder  than  wind  or  sea 
A  cry  burst  from  the  crew  on  deck, 
As  she  dashed  and  crashed,  a  hopeless  wreck, 

Upon  the  Chimneys  Three. 

The  storm  and  night  were  passed,  the  light 

To  streak  the  east  began  ; 
The  cabin-boy,  picked  up  at  sea, 
Survived  the  wreck,  and  only  he, 

To  tell  of  the  Carmilhan. 


INTERLUDE. 

WHEN  the  long  murmur  of  applause 

That  greeted  the  Musician's  lay 

Had  slowly  buzzed  itself  away, 

And  the  long  talk  of  Spectre  Ships 

That  followed  died  upon  their  lips 

And  came  unto  a  natural  pause, 

"These  tales  you  tell  are  one  and  all 

Of  the  Old  World,"  the  Poet  said, 

"  Flowers  gathered  from  a  crumbling  wall, 

Dead  leaves  that  rustle  as  they  fall ; 

Let  me  present  you  in  their  stead     . 

Something  of  our  New  England  earth, 

A  tale  which,  though  of  no  great  worth, 

Has  still  this  merit,  that  it  yields 

A  certain  freshness  of  the  fields, 

A  sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread." 

The  Student  answered  :  "Be  discreet ; 
For  if  the  flour  be  fresh  and  sound, 
And  if  the  bread  be  light  and  sweet, 
Who  caret h  in  what  mill 't  was  ground, 
Or  of  what  oven  felt  the  heat, 
Unless,  as  old  Cervantes  said, 
You  are  looking  after  better  bread 
Than  any  that  is  made  of  wheat  ?  ^ 

You  know  that  people  nowadays 
To  what  is  old  give  little  praise  ; 
All  must  be  new  in  prose  and  verse  : 
They  want  hot  bread,  or  something  worse, 
Fresh  every  morning,  and  half  baked  ; 
The  wholesome  bread  of  yesterday, 
Too  stale  for  them,  is  thrown  away, 
Nor  is  their  thirst  with  water  slaked." 

As  oft  we  see  the  sky  in  May 
Threaten  to  rain,  and  yet  not  rain, 
The  Poet's  face,  before  so  gay; 
Was  clouded  with  a  look  of  pain, 
But  suddenly  brightened  up  again  ; 
And  without  further  let  or  stay 
He  told  his  tale  of  yesterday. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


215 


THE    POET'S  TALE. 

LADY    WENTYVOKTII. 

ONE  hundred  years  ago,  and  something  more, 
In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tavern  door, 
Neat  as  a  pm,  and  blooming  as  a  rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows, 
Just  as  her  cuckoo-clock  was  striking  nine. 
Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 
The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax, 
In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded  arms, 
And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past  his  prime, 
And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven  him  to  despair. 
For  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,  her  husband,  dressed  in  bottle-green, 
Drive  his  new  Flying  Stage-coach,  four  in  hand, 
Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the  land, 
And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  on  the  Bay ! 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 
Were  interrupted  by  a  little  girl, 
Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 
Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders  bare, 
A  thin  slip  of  a  girl,  like  a  new  moon, 
Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 
A  creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 
A  pail  of  water  dripping,  through  the  street, 
And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  full  of  grace, — 
The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face  ; 
The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by  ; 
The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 
That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and  glanced, 
As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam  danced  : 
And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 
The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 
Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her  say 
These  words,  or  thought  he  did,  as  plain  as  day : 
"  O  Martha  Hilton  !     Fie  !  how  dare  you  go 
About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  look.ng  so  !  " 
At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,    and  straight  re 
plied  : 

"  No  matter  how  I  look  ;  I  yet  shall  ride 
In  my  own  chariot,  ma'am."     And  on  tb.3  child 
The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 
As  with  her  heavy  burden  she  passed  on. 
Look  back,  then  turned  the  corner,  and  was  gone. 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention  was  a  gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and  spun, 
The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank, 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and  sank, 
While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A  portly  person  with  three-corned  hat, 
A  crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered  hair, 
And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his  knees, 
Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it  passed, 
Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and  fast ; 
For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth,  driving  down 
To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out  to  sea, 
A  goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a  pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 

Near  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high-road, 

Sequestered  among  trees,  a  noble  pile, 

Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style  ; 

Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 

And  stacks  of  chimneys  rising  high  in  air, — 


Pandaan  pipes,  on  which  all  winds  that  blew 
Made  mournful  music  the  whole  winter  through. 
Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 
Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry  ; 
Carved  chimney-pieces,  where  on  brazen  dogs 
Revelled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of  logs  \ 
Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 
Mysterious  passages,  and  flights  of  stairs  ; 
And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded  frames, 
The  ancestral    Wentworths  with  Old-Scripture 
names. 

Such  was    the    mansion   where  the   great    man 

dwelt, 

A  widower  and  childless  ;  and  he  felt 
The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 
That  like  a  presence  haunted  every  room  ; 
For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he  could  feel 
The  pain  of  wounds,  that  ache  because  they  heal. 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went, — seven  in  all, 
And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  the  Hall ; 
The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its  chambers 

shed, 

The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows  red  ; 
The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the  rain  ; 
Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare  again  ; 
Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs  bloomed  and 

died, 

In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the  tide, 
Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships  came  home  from  sea, 
And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased  to  be. 

And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton  served 
In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unobserved  : 
By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent  grew, 
Though  hidden  by  clouds,  her  light  still  shining 

through ; 

A  maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or  fine, 
A  servant  who  made  service  seem  divine  ! 
Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look  upon  ; 
The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses  shone, 
The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 
If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  before. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the  mill 
Of  Time,  that  never  for  an  hour  stands  still, 
Ground  out  the  Governor's  sixtieth  birthday, 
And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  silver-gray. 
The   robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 
The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  carolling, 
The  restless  swallows  building  in  the  eaves, 
The  golden  buttercups,  the  grass,  the  leaves, 
The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 
All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday  ! 
He  gave  a  splendid  banquet,  served  on  plate, 
Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 
And  was  magnificent  in  everything. 
He  had  invited  all  his  friends  and  peers, 
The  Pepperels,  the  Langdons,  and  the  Lears, 
The  Sparhawks,  the  Penhallows,  and  the  rest ; 
For  why  repeat  the  name  of  every  guest  V 
But  I  must  mention  one,  in  bands  and  gown. 
The  rector  there,  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown 
Of  the  Established  Church  ;  with  smiling  face 
He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said  grace  ; 
And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 
But  ended  as  none  other  I  e'er  knew. 

When  they  had   drunk  the  King,  with  many  a 

cheer, 

The  Governor  whispered  in  a  servant's  ear, 
Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there  stood 
Within  the  room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 
A  maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 
Youthful  and  beautiful   and  simply  dressed. 
Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton  ?  It  must  be! 
Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she  ! 
Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty  years, 
How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears  ; 


216 


TALES   OF  A   WAYSIDE   INN. 


The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 

Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty ! 

Yet  scarce  a  guest  perceived  that  she  was  there, 

Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  chair, 

Played    slightly    with    his    ruffles,    then    looked 

down, 

And  said  unto  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown : 
"  This  is  my  birthday  :  it  shall  likewise  be 
My  wedding-day ;  and  you  shall  marry  me !  '' 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mystified, 

Xone  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  replied : 

"  Marry  you?  Yes,  that  were  a  pleasant  task, 

Your  Excellency;  but  to  whom?  I  ask.'' 

The  Governor  answered:  "To  this  lady  here  ;  " 

And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw  near. 

She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his  side. 

The    rector    paused.      The    impatient    Governor 

cried  : 

"  This  is  the  lady  ;  do  you  hesitate  ? 
Then  I  command  you  as  chief  magistrate." 
The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and  clear  : 
"  Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here,1' 
And  so  on  to  the  end.     At  his  command 
On  the  fourth  finger  of  her  fair  left  hand 
The  Governor  placed  the  ring;  and  that  was  all: 
Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the  Hall ! 


INTERLUDE. 

WELL  pleased  the  audience  heard  the  tale. 

The  Theologian  said:  "Indeed, 

To  praise  you  there  is  little  need ; 

One  almost  hears  the  farmer's  flail 

Thresh  out  your  wheat,  nor  does  there  fail 

A  certain  freshness,  as  you  said, 

And  sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread. 

But  not  less  sweet  and  not  less  fresh 

Are  many  legends  that  I  know, 

Writ  by  the  monks  of  long-ago, 

Who  loved  to  mortify  the  flesh, 

So  that  the  soul  might  purer  grow, 

And  rise  to  a  diviner  state ; 

And  one  of  these  —  perhaps  of  all 

Most  beautiful  —  I  now  recall, 

And  with  permission  will  narrate; 

Hoping  thereby  to  make  amends 

For  that  grim  tragedy  of  mine, 

As  strong  and  black  as  Spanish  wine, 

I  told  last  night,  and  wish  almost 

It  had  remained  untold,  my  friends; 

For  Torquemada's  awful  ghost 

Came  to  me  in  the  dreams  I  dreamed, 

And  in  the  darkness  glared  and  gLamed 

Like  a  great  lighthouse  on  the  coast." 

The  Student  laughing  said  :   "  Far  more 

Like  to  some  dismal  tire  of  bale 

Flaring  portentous  on  a  hill ; 

Or  torches  lighted  on  a  shore 

By  wreckers  in  a  midnight  gale. 

No  matter  ;  be  it  as  you  win, 

Only  go  forward  with  your  tale." 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE. 

THE   LEGEND   BEAUTIFUL. 

"  HADST  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled!  " 
That  is  what  the  vision  said. 

In  his  chamber  all  alone, 
Kneeling  on  the  floor  of  stone, 
Prayed  the  Monk  in  deep  contrition 
For  his  sins  of  indecision, 
Prayed  for  greater  self-denial 
In  temptation  and  in  trial  ; 


It  was  noonday  by  the  dial, 
And  the  Monk  was  all  alone. 

Suddenly,  as  if  it  lightened, 
An  unwonted  splendor  brightened 
All  within  him  and  without  him 
In  that  narrow  cell  of  stone  ; 
And  he  saw  the  Blessed  Vision 
Of  our  Lord,  with  light  Blysian 
Like  a  vesture  wrapped  about  him, 
Like  a  garment  round  him  thrown. 

Not  as  crucified  and  slain, 
Not  in  agonies  of  pain, . 
Not  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet, 
Did  the  Monk  his  Master  see ; 
But  as  in  the  village  street, 
In  the  house  or  harvest-field, 
Halt  and  lame  and  blind  he  healed, 
When  he  walked  in  Galilee. 

In  an  attitude  imploring, 

Hands  upon  his  bosom  crossed, 

Wondering,  worshipping,  adoring, 

Knelt  the  Monk  in  rapture  lost. 

Lord,  he  thought,  in  heaven  that  reigncst, 

Who  am  I,  that  thus  thou  deignest 

To  reveal  thyself  to  me  ? 

Who  am  I,  that  from  the  centre 

Of  thy  glory  thou  shouldst  enter 

This  poor  cell,  my  guest  to  be  ? 

Then  amid  his  exaltation, 
Loud  the  convent  bell  appalling, 
From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Rang  through  court  and  corridor 
With  persistent  iteration 
He  had  never  heard  before. 
It  was  now  the  appointed  hour 
When  alike  in  shine  or  shower, 
Winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat, 
To  the  convent  portals  came 
All  the  blind  and  halt  and  lame, 
All  the  beggars  of  the  street, 
For  their  daily  dole  of  food 
Dealt  them  by  the  brotherhood ; 
And  their  almoner  was  he 
Who  upon  his  bended  knee. 
Rapt  in  silent  ecstasy 
Of  divinest  self -surrender. 
Saw  the  Vision  and  the  Splendor. 

Deep  distress  and  hesitation 
Mingled  with  his  adoration  ; 
Should  he  go,  or  should  he  stay  ? 
Should  he  leave  the  poor  to  wait 
Hungry  at  the  convent  gate, 
Till  the  Vision  passed  away  ? 
Should  he  slight  his  radiant  guesi, 
Slight  this  visitant  celestial. 
For  a  crowd  of  ragged,  bestial 
Beggars  at  the  convent  gate  '1 
Would  the  Vision  there  remain  I 
Would  the  Vision  come  again  ? 
Then  a  voice  within  his  breast 
Whispered,  audible  and  clear 
As  if  to  the  outward  ear  : 
"  Do  thy  duty  ;  that  is  best ; 
Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest ! '' 

Straightway  to  his  feet  he  started, 
And  with  longing  look  intent 
On  the  Blessed  Vision  bent, 
Slowly  from  his  cell  departed, 
Slowly  on  his  errand  went. 

At  the  gate  the  poor  were  waiting, 
Looking  through  the  iron  grating, 
With  that  terror  in  the  eye 
That  is  only  seen  in  those 
Who  amid  their  wants  and  v/oc- 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


217 


Hear  the  sound  of  doors  that  close, 
And  of  feet  that  pass  them  by ; 
Grown  familiar  with  disfavor. 
Grown  familiar  with  the  savor 
Of  the  bread  by  which  men  die  ! 
But  to-day,  they  knew  not  why, 
Like  the  gate  of  Paradise 
Seemed  the  convent  gate  to  ris«, 
Like  a  sacrament  divine 
Seemed  to  them  the  bread  and  wine. 
In  his  heart  the  Monk  was  praying, 
Thinking  of  the  homeless  poor, 
What  they  suffer  and  endure  ; 
What  we  see  not,  what  we  see ; 
And  the  inward  voice  was  saying  : 
•'  Whatsoever  thing  thou  doest 
to  the  least  of  mine  and  lowest, 
That  thou  doest  unto  me !  " 

Unto  me  !  but  had  the  Vision 
Come  to  him  in  beggar's  clothing, 
Come  a  mendicant  imploring, 
Would  he  then  have  knelt  adoring, 
Or  have  listened  with  derision, 
And  have  turned  away  with  loathing? 

Thus  his  conscience  put  the  question, 
Full  of  troublesome  suggestion, 
As  at  length,  with  hurried  pace, 
Towards  his  cell  he  turned  his  face, 
And  beheld  the  convent  bright 
With  a  supernatural  light, 
Like  a  luminous  cloud  expanding 
Over  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling. 

But  he  paused  with  awe-struck  feeling 
At  the  threshold  of  his  door, 
For  the  Vision  still  was  standing 
As  he  left  it  there  before, 
When  the  convent  bell  appalling, 
From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Summoned  him  to  feed  the  poor. 
Through  the  long  hour  intervening 
It  had  waited  his  return, 
And  he  felt  his  bosom  burn, 
Comprehending  all  the  meaning, 
When  the  Blessed  Vision  said, 
"  Eladst  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled  1 


INTERLUDE. 

ALL  praised  the  Legend  more  or  less  . 

Some  liked  the  moral,  some  the  verse  ; 

Some  thought  it  better,  and  some  wor«* 

Than  other  legends  of  the  past ; 

Until,  with  ill-concealed  distress 

At  all  their  cavilling,  at  last 

The  Theologian  gravely  said : 

"The  Spanish  proverb,  then,  is  right. 

Consult  your  friends  on  what  you  do, 

And  one  will  say  that  it  is  white, 

And  others  say  that  it  is  red.'' 

And  "  Amen !  "  quoth  the  Spanish  Je* 

"  Six  stories  told !    We  must  have  seveu. 
A  cluster  like  the  Pleiades, 
And  lo  !  it  happens,  as  with  these, 
That  one  is  missing  from  our  heaven. 
Where  is  the  Landlord  V     Bring  Liin  here 
Let  the  Lost  Pleiad  reappear." 

Thus  the  Sicilian  cried,  and  went 
Forthwith  to  seek  his  missing  star, 
Bat  did  not  find  him  in  the  bar, 
A  place  that  landlords  most  frequent, 
Nor  yet  beside  the  kitchen  fire, 
Nor  up  the  stairs,  nor  in  the  hall; 
It  was  in  vain  to  ask  or  call, 
There  were  no  tidings  of  the  Squire. 


So  he  came  back  with  downcast  head, 
Exclaiming  :   "  Well,  our  bashful  host 
Hath  surely  given  up  the  ghost. 
Another  proverb  says  the  dead 
Can  tell  no  tales  ;  and  that  is  true. 
It  follows,  then,  that  one  of  you 
Must  tell  a  story  in  his  stead. 
You  must,"  he  to  the  Student  said, 
l'  Who  know  so  many  of  the  best, 
And  tell  them  better  than  the  rest." 

Straight,  by  these  flattering  words  beguiled, 

The  Student,  happy  as  a  child 

When  lie  is  called  a  little  man, 

Assumed  the  double  task  imposed, 

And  without  more  ado  unclosed 

His  smiling  lips,  and  thus  began. 


THE  STUDENT'S   SECOND   TALE. 

THE   BARON   OF   ST.    CASTINE. 

BARON  CASTINE  of  St.  Castine 

Has  left  his  chateau  in  the  Pyrenees, 

And  sailed  across  the  western  seas. 

When  he  went  a. way  from  his  fair  demesne 

The  birds  were  building,  the  woods  were  green  ; 

And  now  the  winds  of  winter  blow 

Round  the  turrets  of  the  old  chateau, 

The  birds  are  silent  and  unseen, 

The  leaves  lie  dead  in  the  ravine, 

And  the  Pyrenees  are  white  with  snow. 

His  father,  lonely,  old,  and  gray, 

Sits  by  the  fireside  day  by  day, 

Thinking  ever  one  thought  of  care  ; 

Through  the  southern  windows,  narrow  and  tall. 
;  The  sun  shines  into  the  ancient  hali, 

And  makes  a  glory  round  his  hair. 
1  The  house-dog,  stretched  beneath  his  chair, 
\  Groans  in  his  sleep  as  if  in  pain, 
I  Then  wakes,  and  yawns,  and  sleeps  again, 

So  silent  is  it  everywhere, — 
;  So  silent  you  can  hear  the  mouse 
l  Hun  anil  rummage  along  the  beams 
i  Behind  the  wainscot  of  the  wall ; 
'  And  the  old  man  rouses  from  his  dreams, 

And  wanders  restless  through  the  house, 

As  if  he  heard  strange  voices  call. 

His  footsteps  echo  along  the  floor 

Of  a  distant  passage,  and  pause  awhile; 

He  is  standing  by  an  open  door 

Looking  long,  with  a  sad,  sweet  smile. 

Into  the  room  of  his  absent  son. 

There  is  the  bed  on  which  he  lay, 

There  are  the  pictures  bright  and  gay, 

Horses  and  hounds  and  sun-lit  seas  ; 
,  There  are  his  powder-flask  and  gun, 
I  And  his  hunting-knives  in  shape  of  a  fan; 

The  chair  by  the  window  where  he  sat, 
I  With  the  clouded  tiger-skin  for  a  mat, 

Looking  out  on  the  Pyrenees, 

Looking  out  on  Mount  Marborc' 

And  the  Seven  Valleys  of  Lavcdan. 

All  me  !  he  turns  away  and  sighs  ; 

There  is  a,  mist  before  his  eyes. 

At  night,  whatever  the  weather  be, 
Wind  or  rain  or  starry  heaven, 
Just  as  the  clock  is  striking  seven, 
Those  who  look  from  the  windows  see 
The  village  Curate,  with  lantern  and  maid. 
Come  through  the  gateway  from  the  park. 
And  cross  the  courtyard  damp  and  dark, — 
A  ring  of  light  in  a  ring  of  shade. 

And  now  at  the  old  man's  side  he  stands, 
His  voice  is  cheery,  his  heart  expands, 


218 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


He  gossips  pleasantly,  by  the  blaze 
Of  the  fire  of  fagots,  about  old  days, 
And  Cardinal  Mazarm  and  the  Fronde, 
And  the  Cardinal's  nieces  fair  and  fond, 
And  what  they  did,  and  what  they  said, 
When  they  heard  his  Eminence  was  dead. 

And  after  a  pause  the  old  man  says, 

His  mind  still  coming  back  again 

To  the  one  sad  thought  that  haunts  his  brain, 

"  Are  there  any  tidings  from  over  sea  '1 

Ah,  why  has  that  wild  boy  gone  from  me  ?  " 

And  the  Curate  answers,  looking  down, 

Harmless  and  docile  as  a  lamb, 

"  Young  blood  !  young  blood  !     It  must  so  be  !  " 

And  draws  from  the  pocket  of  his  gown 

A  handkerchief  like  an  oriflamb, 

And  wipes  his  spectacles,  and  they  play 

Their  little  game  of  lansquenet 

In  silence  for  an  hour  or  so, 

Till  the  clock  at  nine  strikes  loud  and  clear 

From  the  village  lying  asleep  below, 

And  across  the  courtyard,  into  the  dark 

Of  the  winding  pathway  in  the  park, 

Curate  and  lantern  disappear, 

And  darkness  reigns  in  tiie  old  chateau. 

The  ship  has  come  back  from  over  sea, 
She  has  been  signalled  from  below, 
And  into  the  harbor  of  Bordeaux 
She  sails  with  her  gallant  company. 
But  among  them  is  nowhere  seen 
The  brave  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine  ; 
He  hath  tarried  behind,  I  ween, 
In  the  beautiful  land  of  Acadie  ! 

And  the  father  paces  to  and  fro 

Through  the  chambers  of  the  old  chateau, 

Waiting,  waiting  to  hear  the  hum 

Of  wheels  on  the  road  that  runs  below, 

Of  servants  hurrying  here  and  there, 

The  voice  in  the  courtyard,  the  step  on  the  stair, 

Waiting  for  some  one  who  doth  not  come ! 

But  letters  there  are,  which  the  old  man  reads 

To  the  Curate,  when  he  comes  at  night, 

Word  by  word,  as  an  acolyte 

Repeats  his  prayers,  and  tells  his  beads  ; 

Letters  full  of  the  rolling  sea, 

Pull  of  a  young  man's  joy  to  be 

Abroad  in  the  world,  alone  and  free ; 

Full  of  adventures  and  wonderful  scenes 

Of  hunting  the  deer  through  forests  vast 

In  the  royal  grant  of  Pierre  du  Gast ; 

Of  nights  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines ; 

Of  Madocawando  the  Indian  chief, 

And  his  daughters,  as  glorious  as  queens, 

And  beautiful  beyond  belief ; 

And  so  soft  the  tones  of  their  native  tongue, 

The  words  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung ! 

And  the  Curate  listens,  and  smiling  says : 

u  Ah  yes,  dear  friend  !  in  our  young  days 

We  should  have  liked  to  hunt  the  deer 

All  day  amid  those  forest  scenes. 

And  to  sleep  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines ; 

But  now  it  is  better  sitting  here 

Within  four  walls,  and  v.  ithout  the  fear 

Of  losing  our  hearts  to  Indian  queens ; 

For  man  is  fire  and  woman  is  tow. 

And  the  Somebody  comes  and  begins  to  blow." 

Then  a  gleam  of  distrust  and  vague  surmise 

Shines  in  the  father's  gentle  eyes, 

As  fire-light  on  a  window-pane 

Glimmers  and  vanishes  again  ; 

But  naught  he  answers  ;  he  only  sighs, 

And  for  a  moment  bows  his  head ; 

Then,  as  their  custom  is,  they  play 

Their  little  game  of  lansquenet, 

And  another  day  is  with  the  dead. 

Another  day,  and  many  a  day 


And  many  a  week  and  month  depart, 
When  a  fatal  letter  wings  its  way 
Across  the  sea,  like  a  bird  of  prey, 
And  strikes  and  tears  the  old  man's  heart. 
Lo  !  the  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine, 
Swift  as  the  wind  is,  and  as  wild, 
Has  married  a  dusky  Tarratine, 
Has  married  Madocawando' s  child  ! 

The  letter  drops  from  the  father's  hand  ; 
Though  the  sinews  of  his  heart  are  wrung, 
He  utters  no  cry,  he  breathes  no  prayer, 
No  malediction  falls  from  his  tongue  ; 
But  his  stately  figure,  erect  and  grand, 
Bends  and  sinks  like  a  column  of  sand 
In  the  whirlwind  of  his  great  despair. 
Dying,  yes,  dying  !     His  latest  breath 

;  Of  parley  at  the  door  of  death 

1  Is  a  blessing  on  his  wayward  son. 

I  Lower  and  lower  on  his  breast 
Sinks  his  gray  head  ;  he  is  at  rest ; 
No  longer  he  waits  for  any  one. 

For  many  a  year  the  old  chateau 

Lies  tenantless  and  desolate ; 

Rank  grasses  in  the  courtyard  grow, 

About  its  gables  caws  the  crow  ; 

Only  the  porter  at  the  gate 

Is  left  to  guard  it,  and  to  wait 

The  coming  of  the  rightful  heir ; 

No  other  life  or  sound  is  there  ; 

No  more  the  Curate  comes  at  night, 

No  more  is  seen  the  unsteady  light, 

Threading  the  alleys  of  the  park ; 

The  windows  of  the  hall  are  dark. 

The  chambers  are  dreary,  cold,  and  bare  ! 

At  length,  at  last,  when  the  winter  is  past, 

And  birds  are  building,  and  woods  are  green, 

With  flying  skirts  is  the  Curate  seen 

Speeding  along  the  woodland  way, 

Humming  gayly,  "  No  day  is  so  long 

But  it  comes  at  last  to  vesper-song. " 

He  stops  at  the  porter's  lodge  to  say 

That  at  last  the  Baron  of  St.  Castine 

Is  coming  home  with  his  Indian  queen, 

Is  coming  without  a  week's  delay  ; 

And  all  the  house  must  be  swept  and  clean, 

And  all  things  set  in  good  array  ! 

And  the  solemn  porter  shakes  his  head  ; 

And  the  answer  he  makes  is  :  "  Lack-a-day  I 

We  will  see,  as  the  blind  man  said  !  " 

Alert  since  first  the  day  began, 
The  cock  upon  the  village  church 
Looks  northward  from  his  airy  perch, 
As  if  beyond  the  ken  of  man 
To  see  the  ships  come  sailing  on, 
And  pass  the  Isle  of  Oleron, 
And  pass  the  Tower  of  Cordouan. 

In  the  church  below  is  cold  in  clay 

The  heart  that  would  have  leaped  for  joy — 

O  tender  heart  of  truth  and  trust !  — 

To  see  the  coming  of  that  day  ; 

In  the  church  below  the  lips  are  dust ; 

Dust  are  the  hands,  and  dust  the  feet, 

That  would  have  been  so  swift  to  meet 

The  coming  of  that  wayward  boy. 

i 

j  At  night  the  front  of  the  old  chateau 
Is  a  blaze  of  light  above  and  below  ; 
There  's  a  sound  of  wheels  and  hoofs  in  the  street, 
A  cracking  of  whips,  and  scamper  of  feet, 
Bells  are  ringing,  and  horns  are  blown, 
And  the  Baron  hath  come  again  to  his  own. 
The  Curate  is  waiting  in  the  hall, 
Most  eager  and  alive  of  all 
To  welcome  the  Baron  and  Baroness  ; 
But  his  mind  is  full  of  vague  distress, 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


219 


For  he  hath  read  in  Jesuit  books 

Of  those  children  of  the  wilderness, 

And  now,  good,  simple  man  !  he  looks 

To  see  a  painted  savage  stride 

Into  the  room,  with  shoulders  bare, 

And  eagle  feathers  in  her  hair, 

And  around  her  a  robe  of  panther's  hide. 

Instead,  he  beholds  with  secret  shame 

A  form  of  beauty  undefined. 

A  loveliness  without  a  name, 

Not  of  degree,  but  more  of  kind  ; 

Nor  bold  nor  shy,  nor  short  nor  tall, 

But  a  new  mingling  of  them  all. 

Yes,  beautiful  beyond  belief, 

Transfigured  and  transfused,  he  sees 

The  lady  of  the  Pyrenees, 

The  daughter  of  the  Indian  chief. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  hair 

The  gold-bronze  color  of  the  skin 

Seems  lighted  by  a  fire  within, 

As  when  a  burst  of  sunlight  shines 

Beneath  a  sombre  grove  of  pines, — 

A  dusky  splendor  in  the  air. 

The  two  small  hands,  that  now  are  pressed 

In  his,  seem  made  to  be  caressed. 

They  lie  so  warm,  and  soft,  and  still, 

Like  birds  half  hidden  in  a  ne»t, 

Trustful,  and  innocent  of  ill. 

And  ah  !  he  cannot  believe  his  ears 

When  her  melodious  voice  he  hears 

Speaking  his  native  Gascon  tongue  ; 

The  words  she  utters  seem  to  be 

Part  of  some  poem  of  Goudouli, 

They  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung  ! 

And  the  Baron  smiles,  and  says,  "  You  see, 

I  told  you  but  the  simple  truth  ; 

Ah,  you  may  trust  the  eyes  of  youth  !  " 

Down  in  the  village  day  by  day 

The  people  gossip  in  their  way, 

And  stare  to  see  the  Baroness  pass 

On  Sunday  morning  to  early  Mass  ; 

And  when  she  kneeleth  down  to  pray. 

They  wonder,  and  whisper  together,  and  say, 

"  Surely  this  is  no  heathen  lass  !  " 

And  in  course  of  time  they  learn  to  bless 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness. 

And  in  course  of  time  the  Curate  learns 

A  secret  so  dreadful,  that  by  turns 

He  is  ice  and  fire,  he  freezes  and  burns. 

The  Baron  at  confession  hath  said, 

That  though  this  woman  bs  his  wife, 

He  hath  wed  her  as  the  Indians  wed, 

He  hath  bought  her  for  a  gun  and  a  knife' 

And  the  Curate  replies  :   ';  O  profligate, 

O  Prodigal  Son  !  return  once  more 

To  the  open  arms  and  the  open  door 

Of  the  Church,  or  ever  it  be  too  late. 

Thank  God,  thy  father  did  not  live 

To  see  what  he  could  not  forgive ; 

On  thee,  so  reckless  and  perverse, 

He  left  his  blessing,  not  his  curse. 

But  the  nearer  the  dawn  the  darker  the  night, 

And  by  going  wrong  all  things  come  right ; 

Things  have  been  mended  that  were  worse, 

And  the  worse,  the  nearer  they  are  to  mend. 

For  the  sake  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Thou  shalt  be  wed  as  Christians  wed. 

And  all  things  comes  to  a  happy  end." 


Pause  for  a   moment  in  thy  course, 
And  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ! 
O  Gave,  that  from  thy  hidden  source 
In  yon  mysterious  mountain-side 
Pursuest  thy  wandering  way  alone, 
And  leaping  down  its  steps  of  stone, 
Along  the  meadow-lands  demure 
Stealest  away  to  the  Adour, 
Pause  for  a  moment  in  thy  course 
To  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ! 

The  choir  is  singing  the  matin  song, 

The  doors  of  the  church  are  opened  wide, 

The  people  crowd,  and  press,  and  throng 

To  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

They  enter  and  pass  along  the  nave  ; 

They  stand  upon  the  father's  grave  ; 

The  bells  are  ringing  soft  and  slow  ; 

Ttie  living  above  and  the  dead  below 

Give  their  blessing  on  one  and  twain  ; 

The  warm  wind  blows  from  the  hills  of  Spain, 

The  birds  are  building,  the  leaves  are  green, 

And  Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine 

Hath  come  at  last  to  his  own  again. 


Alike  on  mountain  and  on  moo 


FINALE. 

".Vi'.VC'  plaudit( ' !  "  the  Student  cried, 

When  he  had  finished  ;  "  now  applaud, 

As  Roman  actors  used  to  say 

At  the  conclusion  of  a  play  ;  " 

And  rose,  and  spread  his  hands  abroad, 

And  smiling  bowed  from  side  to  side, 

As  one  who  bears  the  palm  away. 

And  generous  was  the  applause  andloud, 

But  less  for  him  than  for  the  sun, 

That  even  as  the  tale  was  done 

Burst  from  its  canopy  of  cloud, 

And  lit  the  landscape  with  the  blaze 

Of  afternoon  on  autumn  days, 

And  tilled  the  room  with  light,  and  made 

The  fire  of  logs  a  painted  shade. 

A  sudden  wind  from  out  the  west 
Blew  all  its  trumpets  loud  and  shrill; 
The  windows  rattled  with  the  blast, 
The  oak-trees  shouted  as  it  passed, 
And  straight,  as  if  by  fear  possessed, 
The  cloud  encampment  on  the  hill 
Broke  up,  and  fluttering  flag  and  tent 
Vanished  into  the  firmament, 
And  down  the  valley  fled  amain 
The  rear  of  the  retreating  rain. 

Only  far  up  in  the  blue  sky 

A  mass  of  clouds,  like  drifted  snow 

Suffused  with  a  faint  Alpine  glow, 

Was  heaped  together,  vast  and  high, 

On  which  a  shattered  rainbow  hung, 

Not  rising  like  the  ruined  arch 

Of  some  aerial  aqueduct, 

But  like  a  roseate  garland  plucked 

From  an  Olympian  god,  and  flung 

Aside  in  his  triumphal  march. 

Like  prisoners  from  their  dungeon  gloom, 

Like  birds  escaping  from  a  snare, 

Like  school-boys  at  the  hour  of  play, 

All  left  at  once  the  pent-up  room, 

And  rushed  into  the  open  air  ; 

And  no  more  tales  were  told  that  day. 


220 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


PART   THIRD. 


PRELUDE. 


THE  evening  came  ;  the  golden  vane 
A  moment  in  the  sunset  glanced, 
Then  darkened,  and  then  gleamed  again 
As  from  the  east  the  moon  advanced 
And  touched  it  with  a  softer  light ; 
While  underneath,  with  flowing  mane, 
Upon  the  sign  the  Red  Horse  pranced, 
And  galloped  forth  into  the  night. 

But  brighter  than  the  afternoon 
That  followed  the  dark  day  of  rain, 
And  brighter  than  the  golden  vane 
That  glistened  in  the  rising  moon, 
Within  the  ruddy  fire-light  gleamed  ; 
And  every  separate  window-pane, 
Backed  by  the  outer  darkness,  showed 
A  mirror,  where  the  namelets  gleamed 
And  flickered  to  and  fro,  and  seemed 
A  bonfire  lighted  in  the  road. 

Amid  the  hospitable  glow, 
Like  an  old  actor  on  the  stage, 
With  the  uncertain  voice  of  age, 
The  singing  chimney  chanted  low 
The  homely  songs  of  long  ago. 

The  voice  that  Ossian  heard  of  yore, 

When  midnight  winds  were  in  his  hall ; 

A  ghostly  and  appealing  call, 

A  sound  of  days  that  are  no  more  ! 

And  dark  as  Ossian  sat  the  Jew, 

And  listened  to  the  sound,  and  knew 

The  passing  of  the  airy  hosts, 

The  gray  and  misty  cloud  of  ghosts 

In  their  interminable  flight ; 

And  listening  muttered  in  his  beard, 

With  accent  indistinct  and  weird, 

* '  Who  are  ye,  children  of  the  Night  ?  " 

Beholding  his  mysterious  face, 
"  Tell  me,"  the  gay  Sicilian  said, 
"Why  was  it  that  in  breaking  bread 
At  supper,  you  bent  down  your  head 
And,  musing,  paused  a  little  space, 
As  one  who  says  a  silent  grace  ?  " 

The  Jew  replied,  with  solemn  air, 

"  I  said  the  Manich;ean's  prayer. 

It  was  his  faith, — perhaps  is  mine, — 

That  life  in  all  its  forms  is  one, 

And  that  its  secret  conduits  run 

Unseen,  but  in  unbroken  line, 

From  the  great  fountain-head  divine 

Through  man  and  beast,  through  grain  and  grass. 

Howe'er  we  struggle,  strive,  and  cry, 

From  death  there  can  be  no  escape, 

And  no  escape  from  life,  alas  ! 

Because  we  cannot  die,  but  pass 

From  one  into  another  shape  : 

It  is  but  into  life  we  die. 

u  Therefore  the  Manichaean  said 

This  simple  prayer  on  breaking  bread, 

Lest  he  with  hasty  hand  or  knife 

Might  wound  the  incarcerated  life, 

The  soul  in  things  that  we  call  dead : 

'  I  did  not  reap  thee,  did  not  bind  thee, 

I  did  not  thrash  thee,  did  not  grind  thee, 

Nor  did  I  in  the  oven  bake  thee  ! 

It  was  not  I,  it  was  another 

Did  these  things  unto  thee,  O  brother ; 

I  only  have  thee,  hold  thee,  break  thee  ! ' " 

"  That  birds  have  souls  I  can  concede," 
The  poet  cried,  with  glowing  cheeks  ; 
•"The  flocks  that  from  their  beds  of  reed 


Uprising  north  or  southward  fly, 

And  flying  write  upon  the  sky 

The  biforked  letter  of  the  Greeks, 

As  hath  been  said  by  Rucellai  ; 

All  birds  that  sing  or  chirp  or  cry, 

Even  those  migratory  bands, 

The  minor  poets  of  the  air. 

The  plover,  peep,  and  sanderling, 

That  hardly  can  be  said  to  sing, 

But  pipe  along  the  barren  sands, — 

All  these  have  souls  akin  to  ours  ; 

So  hath  the  lovely  race  of  flowers  : 

Thus  much  I  grant,  but  nothing  more. 

The  rusty  hinges  of  a  door 

Are  not  aiive  because  they  creak  ; 
j  This  chimney,  with  its  dreary  roar, 
'  These  rattling  windows,  do  not  speak  !  " 

"  To  me  they  speak,"  the  Jew  replied  ; 

"  And  in  the  sounds  that  sink  and  soar, 

I  hear  the  voices  of  a  tide 

That  breaks  upon  an  unknown  shore  !  " 

Here  the  Sicilian  interfered  : 
"  That  was  your  dream,  then,  as  you  dozed 
A  moment  since,  with  eyes  half-closed, 
And  murmured  something  in  your  beard." 
The  Hebrew  smiled,  and  answered,   "  Nay  ; 
Not  that,  but  something  very  near ; 
Like,  and  yet  not  the  same,  may  seem 
The  vision  of  my  waking  dream  ; 
Before  it  wholly  dies  away, 
Listen  to  me,  and  you  shall  hear." 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE. 

AZKAEL. 

KING  SOLOMON,  before  his  palace  gate 
At  evening,  on  the  pavement  tessellate 
Was  walking  with  a  stranger  from  the  East, 
Arrayed  in  rich  attire  as  for  a  feast, 
The  mighty  Runjeet-Sing,  a  learned  man, 
And  Rajah  of  the  realms  of  Hindostan. 
And  as  they  walked  the  guest  became  aware 
Of  a  white  figure  in  the  twilight  air, 
Gazing  intent,  as  one  who  with  surprise 
His  form  and  features  seemed  to  recognize ; 
And  in  a  whisper  to  the  king  he  said  : 
"  What  is  yon  shape,  that,  pallid  as  the  dead, 
Is  watching  me,  as  if  he  sought  to  trace 
In  the  dim  light  the  features  of  my  face  V  " 

The  king  looked,  and  replied  :  "  I  know  him  well ; 
It  is  the  Angel  men  call  Azrael, 
'T  is  the  Death  Angel ;  what  hast  thou  to  fear  ?  " 
And  the  guest  answered  :  "  Lest  he  should  come 

near, 

And  speak  to  me,  and  take  away  my  breath  ! 
Save  me  from  Azrael,  save  me  from  death  ! 

0  king,  that  hast  dominion  o'er  the  wind, 
Bid  it  arise  and  bear  me  hence  to  Ind." 

The  king  gazed  upward  at  the  cloudless  sky, 

Whispered  a  word,  and  raised  his  hand  on  high, 

And  lo  !  the  signet-ring  of  chrysoprase 

On  his  uplifted  finger  seemed  to  blaze 

With  hidden  fire,  and  rushing  from  the  west 

There  came  a  mighty  wind,  and  seized  the  guest 

And  lifted  him  from  earth,  and  on  they  passed, 

His  shining  garments  streaming  in  the  blast, 

A  silken  banner  o'er  the  walls  upreared, 

A  purple  cloud,  that  gleamed  and  disappeared. 

Then  said  the  Angel,  smiling  :  "If  this  man 

Be  Rajah  Runjeet-Sing  of  Hindostan, 

Thou  hast  done  well  in  listening  to  his  prayer ; 

1  was  upon  my  way  to  seek  him  there.  " 


TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


221 


'  It  is  the  Angel  men  call  Azrael, 
!T  is  the  Death  Angel.'' 


INTERLUDE. 

"0  EDEEHI,  forbear  to-night 
Your  ghostly  legends  of  affright, 
And  let  the  Talmud  rest  in  peace  ; 
Spare  us  your  dismal  tales  of  death 
That  almost  take  away  one's  breath  ; 
So  doing,  may  your  tribe  increase." 

Thus  the  Sicilian  said  ;  then  went 
And  on  the  spinet's  rattling  keys 
Played  Marianina,  like  a  breeze 
From  Naples  and  the  Southern  seas, 
That  brings  us  the  delicious  scent 
Of  citron  and  of  orange  trees, 
And  memories  of  soft  days  of  ease 
At  Capri  and  Amalri  spent. 

"Not  so,"  the  eager  poet  said  ; 
"  At  least,  not  so  before  I  tell 
The  story  of  my  Azrael, 
An  angel  mortal  as  ourselves, 
Which  in  an  ancient  tome  I  found 
Upon  a  convent's  dusty  shelves, 
Chained  with  an  iron  chain,  and  bound 
In  parchment,  and  with  clasps  of  brass, 


Lest  from  its  prison,  some  dark  day, 

It  might  be  stolen  or  steal  away, 

While  the  good  friars  were  singing  mass. 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  Charlemagne, 
When  like  a  thunder-cloud,  that  lowers 
And  sweeps  from  mountain-crest  to  coast, 
With  lightning  flaming  through  its  showers, 
He  swept  across  the  Lombard  plain, 
Beleaguering  with  his  warlike  train 
Pavi'a,  the  country's  pride  and  boast, 
The  City  of  the  Hundred  Towers." 
Thus  heralded  the  tale  began, 
And  thus  in  sober  measure  ran. 


THE  POET'S    TALE. 

CHAKLEMAGNK. 


OT.GEK  the  Dane  and  Desiderio, 
King  of  the  Lombards,  on  a  lofty  tower 
Stood  gazing  northward  o'er.the  rolling  plains 
League  after  league  of  harvests,  to  the  foot 


222 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Of  the  snow-crested  Alps,  and  saw  approach 
A  mighty  army,  thronging  all  the  roads 
That  led  into  the  city.     And  the  King 
Said  unto  Olger,  who  had  passed  his  youth 
As  hostage  at  the  court  of  France,  and  knew 
The  Emperor's  form  and  face  :   "Is  Charlemagne 
Among    that    host  ? "     And    Olger    answered : 
"No." 

And  still  the  innumerable  multitude 
Flowed  onward  and  increased,  vmtil  the  King 
Cried  in  amazement :   "  Surely  Charlemagne 
Es  coming  in  the  midst  of  all  these  knights  !  " 
And  Olger  answered  slowly  :   "No  ;  not  yeb  ; 
He  will  not  come  so  soon."   Then  much  disturbed 
King  Desiderio  asked  :   "  What  shall  we  do, 
If  he  approach  with  a  still  greater  army  'i  " 
And  Olger  answered  :   "  When  he  shall  appear, 
You  will  behold  what  manner  of  man  he  is  ; 
But  what  will  then  befall  us  I  know  not. " 

Then  came  the  guard  that  never  knew  repose, 
the  Paladins  of  France  ;  and  at  the  sight 
The  Lombard  King  o'ercome  with  terror  cried 
"This  must  be  Charlemagne  !  "  and  as  before 
Did  Olger  answer :   *'  No  ;  not  yet,  not  yet." 

And  then  appeared  in  panoply  complete 

The  Bishops  and  the  Abbots  and  the  Priests 

Of  the  imperial  chapel,  and  the  Counts ; 

And  Desiderio  could  no  more  endure 

The  light  of  day,  nor  yet  encounter  death, 

But  sobbed  aloud  and  said  :   "  Let  us  go  down 

And  hide  us  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 

Far  from  the  sight  and  anger  of  a  foe 

So  terrible  as  this  !  "    And  Olger  said  : 

"  When  you  behold  the  harvests  in  the  fields 

Shaking  with  fear,  the  Po  and  the  Ticino 

Lashing  the  city  walls  with  iron  \vaves, 

Then  may  you  know  that  Charlemagne  is  come." 

And  even  as  he  spake,  in  the  northwest, 

Lo  !  there  uprose  a  black  and  threatening  cloud, 

Out  of  whose  bosom  flashed  the  light  of  arms 

Upon  the  people  pent  up  in  the  city  ; 

A  light  more  terrible  than  any  darkness ; 

And  Charlemagne  appeared  ;  —  a  Man  of  Iron  ! 

His  helmet  was  of  iron,  and  his  gloves 

Of  iron,  and  his  breastplate  and  his  greaves 

And  tassets  were  of  iron,  and  his  shield. 

In  his  left  hand  he  held  an  iron  spear, 

In  his  right  hand  his  sword  invincible. 

The  horse  he  rode  on  had  the  strength  of  iron, 

And  color  of  iron.     All  who  went  before  him, 

Beside  him  and  behind  him,  his  whole  host, 

Were  armed  with  iron,  and  their  hearts  within 

them 

Were  stronger  than  the  armor  that  they  wore. 
The  fields  and  all  the  roads  were  filled  'with  iron, 
And  points  of  iron  glistened  in  the  sun 
And  shed  a  terror  through  the  city  streets. 
This  at  a  single  glance  Olger  the  Dane 
Saw  from  the  tower,  and  turning  to  the  King 
Exclaimed  in  haste  :   "  Behold  !  this  is  the  man 
You  looked  for  with  such  eagerness  !  "  and  then 
Fell  as  one  dead  at  Desiderio' s  feet. 


INTERLUDE. 

WELL  pleased  all  listened  to  the  tale, 
That  drew,  the  Student  said,  its  pith 
And  marrow  from  the  ancient  myth 
Of  some  one  with  an  iron  flail ; 
Or  that  portentous  Man  of  Brass 
Hephasstus  made  in  days  of  yore. 
Who  stalked  about  the  Cretan  shore, 
And  saw  the  ships  appear  and  pass, 


And  threw  stones  at  the  Argonauts, 

Being  filled  with  indiscriminate  ire 

That  tangled  and  perplexed  his  thoughts ; 

But,  like  a  hospitable  host, 

When  strangers  landed  on  the  coast, 

Heated  himself  red-hot  with  fire, 

And  hugged  them  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 

Their  bodies  to  his  burning  breast. 

The  poet  answered :   "  No,  not  thus 

The  legend  rose ;  it  sprang  at  first 

Out  of  the  hunger  and  the  thirst 

In  all  men  for  the  marvellous. 

And  thus  it  filled  and  satisfied 

The  imagination  of  mankind, 

And  this  ideal  to  the  mind 

Was  truer  than  historic  fact. 

Fancy  enlarged  and  multiplied 

The  terrors  oi  the  awful  name 

Of  Charlemagne,  till  he  became 

Armipotent  in  every  act, 

And,  clothed  in  mystery,  appeared 

Not  what  men  saw,  but  what  they  feared. 

"  Besides,  unless  my  memory  fail, 

Your  some  one  with  an  iron  flail 

Is  not  an  ancient  myth  at  all, 

But  comes  much  later  on  the  scene, 

As  Talus  in  the  Faerie  Queene, 

The  iron  groom  of  Artegall, 

Who  threshed  out  falsehood  and  deceit, 

And  truth  upheld,  and  righted  wrong, 

And  was,  as  is  the  swallow,  fleet. 

And  as  the  lion  is,  was  strong." 

The  Theologian  said  :   "  Perchance 

Your  chronicler  in  writing  this 

Had  in  his  mind  the  Anabasis, 

Where  Xenophon  describes  the  advance 

Of  Artaxerxes  to  the  fight  ; 

At  first  the  low  gray  cloud  of  dust. 

And  then  a  blackness  o'er  the  fields 

As  of  a  passing  thunder-gust, 

Then  flash  of  brazen  armor  blight, 

And  ranks  of  men,  and  spears  up-thrust, 

Bowmen  and  troops  with  wicker  shields, 

And  cavalry  equipped  in  white, 

And  chariots  ranged  in  front  of  these 

With  scythes  upon  their  axle-trees. " 

To  this  the  Student  answered  :   ci  Well, 
I  also  have  a  tale  to  tell 
Of  Charlemagne  ;  a  tale  that  throws 
A  softer  light,  more  tinged  with  rose, 
Than  your  grim  apparition  cast 
Upon  the  darkness  of  the  past. 
Listen,  and  hear  in  English  rhyme 
What  the  good  Monk  of  Lauresheini 
Gives  as  the  gossip  of  his  time,' 
In  mediaeval  Latin  prose." 


THE   STUDENT'S  TALE. 

EMMA  AND   EGINUARD. 

WHEN  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charlemagne, 
In  the  free  schools  of  Aix,    how  kings   should 

reign, 

And  with  them  taught  the  children  of  the  poor 
How  subjects  should  be  patient  and  endure, 
He  touched  the  lips  of  some,  as  best  befit, 
With  honey  from  the  hives  of  Holy  Writ ; 
Others  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
Of  ancient  history,  sweet  but  less  divine  ; 
Some  with  the  wholesome  fruits  of  grammar  fed  ; 
Others  with  mysteries  of  the  stars  o'erhead, 
That  hang  suspended  in  the  vaulted  sky 
Like  lamps  in  some  fair  palace  vast  and  high. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


223 


In  sooth  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
That  Saxon  monk,  with  hood  and  rosary, 
With  inkhorn  at  his  belt,  and  pen  and  hook. 
And  mingled  love  and  reverence  in  his  look, 
Or  hear  the  cloister  and  the  court  repeat 
The  measured  footfalls  of  his  sandaled  feet, 
Or  watch  him  with  the  pupils  of  his  school, 
Gentle  of  speech,  but  absolute  of  rule. 
Among  them,  always  earliest  in  his  place, 
Was  Eginhard,  a  youth  of  Frankish  race, 
Whose  face  was  bright  with  flashes  that  forerun 
The  splendors  of  a  yet  un  risen  sun. 
To  him  all  things  were  possible,  and  seemed 
Not  what  he  had  accomplished,  but  had  dreamed, 
And  what  were  tasks  to  others  were  his  play, 
The  pastime  of  an  idle  holiday. 

Smaragdo,  Abbot  of  St.  Michael's,  said, 
With  many  a  shrug  and  shaking  of  the  head, 
Surely  some  demon  must  possess  the  lad, 
Who  showed  more  wit  than  ever  schoolboy  had, 
And  learned  his  Trivium  thus  without  the  rod  ; 
But  Alcuin  said  it  was  the  grace  of  God. 

Thus  he  grew  up,  in  Logic  point-device, 

Perfect  in  Grammar,  and  in  Rhetoric  nice ; 

Science  of  Numbers,   Geometric  art, 

And  lore  of  Stars,  and  Music  knew  by  heart ; 

A  Minnesinger,  long  before  the  times 

Of  those  who  sang  their  love  in  Suabian  rhymes. 

The  Emperor,  when  he  heard  this  good  report 
Of  Eginhard  much  buzzed  about  the  court, 
Said  to  himself,  "This  stripling  seems  to  be 
Purposely  sent  into  the  world  for  me  ; 
He  shall  become  my  scribe,  and  shall  be  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  whereby  the  world  is  ruled." 
Thus  did  the  gentle  Eginhard  attain 
To  honor  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne  ; 
Became  the  sovereign's  favorite,  his  right  hand, 
So  that  his  fame  was  great  in  all  the  land, 
And  all  men  loved  him  for  his  modest  grace 
And  comeliness  of  figure  and  of  face. 
An  inmate  of  the  palace,  yet  recluse, 
A  man  of  books,  yet  sacred  from  abuse 
Among  the  armed  knights  with  spur  on  heel, 
The  tramp  of  horses  and  the  clang  of  steel ; 
And  as  the  Emperor  promised  he  was  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  by  which  the  world  is  ruled. 
But  the  one  art  supreme,  whose  law  is  fate, 
The  Emperor  never  dreamed  of  till  too  late. 

Home  from  her  convent  to  the  palace  came 

The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet  name, 

Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 

Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 

He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 

She  came,  by  kaights  attended  through  the  gate ; 

He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May  ; 

He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 

Among  the  flowers  of  summer  with  her  maid, 

And  said  to  him,  "O  Eginhard,  disclose 

The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  rose  ;  " 

And  trembling  he  made  answer  :    "In  good  sooth, 

Its  mystary  is  love,  its  meaning  youth  !  " 

How  can  I  tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines  ? 
How  can  I  tell  the  miny  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays  V 

O  mystery  of  love  !  O  strange  romance  ! 
Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay  steeds, 
Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds, 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor  looks 
Bat  for  this  clerk,  this  man  of  thought  and  books. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came  ;  the  stalks 
Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks ; 


The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden  and  blood-red, 
Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 
Or  Jove  descending  in  a  shower  of  gold 
Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  old  ; 
For  poets  cherish  many  a  strange  conceit, 
And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its  heat. 

No  more  the  garden  lessons,  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight  park  ; 
But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  delights 
Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights, 
And  watching  from  his  window  hour  by  hour 
The  light  that  burned  in  Princess  Emma's  tower. 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by  the  fire, 
O'ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire, — 
For  what  will  reckless  love  not  do  and  dare  ? — 
He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the  winding 

stair, 
With   some   feigned   message   in   the   Emperor's 

name  ; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady's  presence  came 
He  knelt  down  at  her  feet  until  she  laid 
Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a  naked  blade, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear  :    "  Arise,  Sir  Knight, 
To  my  heart's  level,  O  my  heart's  delight.'' 

And  there  he  lingered  till  the  crowing  cock, 
The  Alectryon  of  the  farmyard  and  the  flock, 
Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and  clear, 
To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was  near. 
And  then  they  parted  ;  but  at  parting,  lo  ! 
They  saw  the  palace  courtyard  white  with  snow, 
And,  placid  as  a  nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 
"  Alas  !  "  he  said,  "  how  hide  the  fatal  line 
Of  footprints  leading  from  thy  door  to  mine, 
And  none  returning  !  "  Ah,  he  little  knew 
What  woman's  wit,  when  put  to  proof,  can  do  ! 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with  the  cares 
And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs, 
Had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and  musing  gazed 
Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 
To  see  the  calm  that  reigned  o'er  all  supreme, 
When  his  own  reign  was  but  a  troubled  dream. 
The  moon  lit  up  the  gables  capped  with  snow, 
And  the  white  roofs,  and  half  the  court  below, 
And  he  beheld  a  form,  that  .seemed  to  cower 
Beneath  a  burden,  come  from  Emma's  tower, — 
A  woman,  who  upon  her  shoulders  bore 
Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 
And  then  returned  in  haste,  but  still  essayed 
To  tread  the  footprints  she  lu-rsflf  had  made  : 
And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted  space, 
The  Emperor  saw  his  daughter  Emma's  face  ! 

He  started  not ;  he  did  not  speak  or  moan, 

But   seemed   as   one   who   hath  been    turned  to 

stone  ; 

:  And  stood  there  like  a  statue,  nor  awoke 
Out  of  his  trance  of  pain,  till  morning  broke, 
Till  the  stars  faded,  and  the  moon  went  down, 
And  o'er  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the  town 
Came  the  gray  daylight ;  then  the  sun,  who  took 
The  empire  of  the  world  with  sovereign  look, 
Suffusing  with  a  soft  and  golden  glow 
All  the  dead  landscape  in  its  shroud  of  snow. 
Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel  spires. 
Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  household  fires, 
And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he  came  ; 
Tho  stork's  nest  on  the  chimney  seemed  in  flame. 
And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  appeared. 
Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely  beard 
And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to  ask, 
As  was  his  wont,  the  day's  appointed  task. 

The  Emperor  looked  upon  him  with  a  smile, 
And  gently  said  :   "  My  son,  wait  yet  awhile  ; 
This  hour  my  council  meets  upon  some  great 
,  And  very  urgent  business  of  the  state. 


224 


TALES  OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN. 


Come  back  within  the  hour.     On  thy  return 
The  work  appointed  for  thee  shalt  thou  learn." 

Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Troubadour, 
He  summoned  straight  his  council,  and  secure 
And  steadfast  in  his  purpose,  from  the  throne 
All  the  adventure  of  the  night  made  known ; 
Then  asked  for  sentence  ;  and  with  eager  breath 
Some  answered  banishment,  and  others  death. 

Then  spake  the  king  :  ,"  Your  sentence  is  not  mine; 

Life  is  th?  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine; 

Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one  depart 

Who  carries  such  a  secret  in  his  heart; 

My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 

Good  Alcuin,  I  remember  how  one  day 

When  my  Pepino  asked  you,   '  What  are  men  ? ' 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your  pen, 

'  Guests  of  the  grave  and  travellers  that  pass  ! ' 

This  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas  ! 

Being  all  fashioned  of  the  self-same  dust, 

Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just  ; 

This  passing  traveller,  who  hath  stolen  away 

The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 

Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  restore ; 

B}'  giving  it,  I  make  it  mine  once  more. 

Over  those  fatal  footprints  I  will  throw 

My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow." 

Then  Eginhard  was  summoned  to  the  hall, 

And  entered,  and  in  presence  of  them  all, 

The  Emperor  said  :  "  My  son,  for  thou  to  me 

Hast  been  a  son,  and  evermore  shall  be, 

Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign,  and  thy  zeal 

Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 

While  I  have  been  forgetful  to  requite 

Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 

But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy  lord, 

Will  crown  thy  love  with  such  supreme  reward, 

A  gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in  vain 

To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charlemagne." 

Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber  wide, 
And  Princess  Emma  entered,  in  the  pride 
Of  birth  and  beauty,  that  in  part  o'ercame 
The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of  shame. 
And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his  throne, 
And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his  own 
Placed  it  in  Eginhard's  and  said  :   "  My  son, 
This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath  won; 
Thus  I  repay  the  royal  debt  I  owe, 
And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow." 


INTERLUDE. 

THUS  ran  the  Student's  pleasant  rhyme 
Of  Eginhard  and  love  and  youth  ; 
Some  doubted  its  historic  truth, 
But  while  they  doubted,  ne'ertheless 
Saw  in  it  gleams  of  truthfulness, 
And  thanked  the  Monk  of  Lauresheim. 

This  they  discussed  in  various  mood  ; 

Then  in  the  silence  that  ensued 

Was  heard  a  sharp  and  sudden  sound 

As  of  a  bowstring  snapped  in  air  ; 

And  the  Musician  with  a  bound 

Sprang  up  in  terror  from  his  chair, 

And  for  a  moment  listening  stood, 

Then  strode  across  the  room,  and  found 

His  dear,  his  darling  violin 

Still  lying  safe  asleep  within 

Its  little  cradle,  like  a  child 

That  gives  a  sudden  cry  of  pain, 

And  wakes  to  fall  asleep  again  ; 

And  as  he  looked  at  it  and  smiled, 

By  the  uncertain  light  beguiled, 

Despair  !  two  strings  were  broken  in  twain. 


While  all  lamented  and  made  moan, 
With  many  a  sympathetic  word 
As  if  the  loss  had  been  their  own, 
Deeming  the  tones  they  might  have  heard 
Sweeter  than  the}'  had  heard  before, 
They  saw  the  Landlord  at  the  door, 
The  missing  man,  the  portly  Squire! 
He  had  not  entered,  but  he  stood 
With  both  arms  full  of  seasoned  wood, 
To  feed  the  much-devouring  fire, 
That  like  a  lion  in  a  cage 
Lashed  its  long  tail  and  roared  with  rage- 

The  missing  man  !     Ah,  yes,  they  said, 
Missing,   but  whither  had  he  fled  V 
Where  had  he  hidden  himself  away? 
No  farther  than  the  barn  or  shed; 
He  had  not  hidden  himself,  nor  fled; 
How  should  he  pass  the  rainy  day 
But  in  his  barn  with  hens  and  hay, 
Or  mending  harness,  cart,  or  sled? 
Now,  having  come,  he  needs  must  stay 
And  tell  his  tale  as  well  as  they. 

The  Landlord  answered  onlv :  "  These 

Are  logs  from  the  dead  apple-trees 

Of  the  old  orchard  planted  here 

By  the  first  Howe  of  Sudbury. 

Nor  oak  nor  maple  has  so  clear 

A  flame,  or  burns  so  quietly, 

Or  leaves  an  ash  so  clean  and  white; " 

Thinking  by  this  to  put  aside 

The  impending  tale  that  terrified; 

When  suddenly,  to  his  delight, 

The  Theologian  interposed, 

Saying  that  when  that  door  was  closed, 

Arid  they  had  stopped  that  draft  of  cold,. 

Unpleasant  night  air,  he  proposed 

To  tell  a  tale  world-wide  apart 

From  that  the  Student  had  just  told; 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  akin, 

As  showing  that  the  human  heart 

Beats  on  forever  as  of  old, 

As  well  beneath  the  snow-white  fold 

Of  Quaker  kerchief,  as  within 

Sendal  or  silk  or  cloth  of  gold, 

And  without  preface  would  begin. 

And  then  the  clamorous  clock  struck  eight. 

Deliberate,  with  sonorous  chime 

Slow  measuring  out  the  march  of  time, 

Like  some  grave  Consul  of  old  Rome 

In  Jupiter's  temple  driving  home 

The  nails  that  mark  the  year  and  date. 

Thus  interrupted  in  his  rhyme, 

The  Theologian  needs  must  wait; 

But  quoted  Horace,  where  he  sings 

The  dire  Necessity  of  things, 

That  drives  into  the  roofs  sublime 

Of  new-built  houses  of  the  great 

The  adamantine  nails  of  Fate. 

When  ceased  the  little  carillon 
To  herald  from  its  wooden  tower 
The  important  transit  of  the  hour, 
The  Theologian  hastened  on, 
Content  to  be  allowed  at  last 
To  sing  his  Idyl  of  the  Past. 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S    TALE, 

ELIZABETH 


"  AH,  how  short  are  the  days  !       How  soon  the 

night  overtakes  us  ! 
In  the  old  country   the  twilight  is  longer  ;  but 

here  in  the  forest 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN.  225 


Suddenly  comes  the  dark,  with  hardly  a  pause  in  j      Thus  in  praise  of  her  servant  she  spake,  and 

its  coming.  Hannah  the  housemaid 

Hardly  a  moment  between  the  two  lights,  the  day  |  Laughed  with  her  eyes,  as  she  listened,  but  gov- 

and  the  lamplight ;  erned  her  tongue,  and  was  silent, 

Yet  how  grand  is  the  winter  !     How  spotless  the  j  While  her  mistress  went  on  :  "  The  house   is  far 

snow  is,  and  perfect !  "  from  the  village  ; 

j  We  should  be  lonely  here,  were  it  not  for  Friends 
Thus   spake  Elizabeth  Haddon  at  nightfall  to  that  in  passing 

Hannah  the  housemaid,  !  Sometimes  tarry  o'ernight,  and  make  us  glad  by 

As    in  the  farm-house  kitchen,  that  served  for  their  coming." 

kitchen  and  parlor, 
By  the  window  she  sat  with  her  work,  arid  looked        Thereupon  answered   Hannah   the  housemaid, 

on  a  landscape  the  thrifty,  the  frugal : 

White  as  the  great  white  sheet  that  Peter  saw  in  '  "  Yea,  they  come  and  they  tarry,  as  if  thy  house 

his  vision,  were  a  tavern  ; 

By  the  four  corners  let  down  and  descending  out  ,  Open  to  all  are  its  doors,  and  they  come  and   go 

of  the  heavens.  like  the  pigeons 

Covered  with  snow  were  the  forests  of  pine,    and    In  and  out  of  the  holes  of  the   pigeon-house  over 

the  fields  and  the  meadows.  the  hayloft, 

Nothing  was  dark  but  the  sky,  and  the  distant    Cooing  and  smoothing  their  feathers  and  basking 

Delaware  flowing  themselves  in  the  sunshine." 

Down  from  its  native  hills,  a  peaceful  and  boun 
tiful  river.  But  in  meekness  of  spirit,  and   calmly,    Eliza 
beth  answered  : 
Then  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  made  answer    "All  I  have  is  the  Lord's,  not  mine  .to  give  or 

Hannah  the  housemaid  :  withhold  it ; 

"  Beautiful  Winter  !  yea,  the  winter  is  beautiful,     I  but  distribute  his   gifts   to   the  poor,    and  to- 

surely,  those  of  his  people 

If  one  could  only  walk  like  a  fly  with  one's   feet    Who  in  journeyings  often  surrender  their  lives  to 

on  the  ceiling.  his  service. 

But   the  great  Delaware  River  is  not  like    the    His,  not  mine,  are  the  gifts,  and  only  so  far  can 

Thames,  as  we  saw  it  I  make  them 

Out  of  our  upper  windows  in  Rotherhithe  Street    Mine,  as  in  giving  I  add  my  heart  to  whatever  is 

in  the  Borough,  given. 

Crowded  with  masts  and  sails  of  vessels  coming    Therefore   my   excellent   father  first   built   this 

and  going ;  house  in  the  clearing  ; 

Here  there  is  nothing  but  pines,  with  patches  of      Though  he  came  not  himself,  1   came  ;    for   the 

snow  on  their  branches.  Lord  was  my  guidance, 

There  is  snow  in  the  air,  and  see  !  it  is  falling  al-    Leading  me  here  for  this  service.     We   must  not 

ready  ;  grudge,  then,  to  others 

All  the  roads  will  be  blocked,  and  I  pity   Joseph    Ever  the  cup  of  cold  water,  or   crumbs  that  fall 

to-morrow,  from  our  table. " 

Breaking  his  way  through  the  drifts,    with  his 

sled  and  oxen  ;  and  then,  too,  Thus  rebuked,  for  a  season  was  silent  the  peni- 

How  in  all  the  world  shall  we  get  to  Meeting  on  tent  housemaid  ; 

First-Day  '? ''  And  Elizabeth  said  in  tones   even   sweeter  .and 

softer  : 
But    Elizabeth    checked    her,    and  answered,     ''Dost  thou  remember,  Hannah,  the  great  May- 

mildly  reproving  :  meeting  in  London, 

''  Surely  the  Lord  will  provide  ;  for  unto  the  snow    WThen  I  was  still  a  child,  how  we  sat  in  the  silent 

he  sayeth,  assembly, 

Be  thou  on  the  earth,  the  good  Lord  sayeth  ;  he  it  :  Waiting  upon   the  Lord  in  patient  and  passive 

is  submission  ? 


Giveth  snow  like   wool,  like   ashes   scatters   the 

hoar-frost." 
So  she  folded  her  work  and  laid  it  away  in   her 

basket. 

Meanwhile  Hannah  the  housemaid  had  closed 

and  fastened  the  shutters, 

Spread  the  cloth,    and  lighted   the   lamp   on   the 
table,  and  placed  there 


Plates  and  cups  from  the  dresser,  the  brown   rye  j  ward  upon  me, 


No  one  spake,  till  at  length  ayoung  man,  a  stran 
ger,  John  Estaugh, 

Moved  by  the  Spirit,  rose,  as  if  he  were  John  the 
Apostle, 

Speaking  such  words  of  power  that  they  bowed 
our  hearts,  as  a  strong  wind 

Bends  the  grass  of  the  fields,  or  grain  that  is  ripe 
for  the  sickle. 

Thoughts  of  him  to-day  have  been  oft  borne  in- 


loaf,  and  the  butter 
Fresh  from  the   dairy,  and    then,    protecting   her 


Wherefore  I  do  not  know  ;  but  strong  is  the  feel 
ing  within  me 


hand  with  a  holder,  I  That  once  more  I  shall  see  a  face  I  have  never 

Took  from  the  crane  in  the  chimney  the  steaming  J  forgotten." 

and  simmering  kettle, 
Poised  it  aloft  in  the  air,  and  filled  up  the  earthen 


teapot, 


II. 


Made  in  Delft,  and  adorned  with  quaint  and  won 
derful  figures.  I  E'EN  as  she  spake  they  heard  the  musical  jangio 

of  sleigh-bells, 
Then  Elizabeth  said,  ' '  Lo  !    Joseph  is  long  on  j  First  far  off,  with  a  dreamy  sound  and  faint  in 

his  errand.  the  distance, 

I  have  sent  him  away  with  a  hamper  of  food  and    Then  growing  nearer  and  louder,  and  turning  into 
of  clothing  the  farmyard, 


For  the  poor  in  the   village.     A  good   lad   and 

cheerful  is  Joseph ; 
In  the  right  place  is  his  heart,    and  his  hand  is 

ready  and  willing. " 

15 


Till  it  stopped  at  the  door,  with  sudden  creaking 
of  runners. 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  as  of  two  men  talk 
ing  together, 


226 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  to  herself,  as  she  listened,  upbraiding  said 

Hannah  the  housemaid, 
"It  is  Joseph  come  back,  and  I  wonder  what 

stranger  is  with  him." 

Down,  from  its  nail  she  took  and  lighted  the 

great  tin  lantern 
Pierced  with  holes,  and  round,  and  roofed  like  the 

top  of  a  lighthouse, 
And  went  forth  to  receive  the  coming  guest  at 

the  doorway, 
Casting  into  the  dark  a  network  of  glimmer  and 

shadow 
Over  the  falling  snow,  the  yellow  sleigh,  and  the 

horses, 
And  the  forms  of  men,  snow-covered,  looming 

gigantic. 
Then  giving  Joseph  the  lantern,  she  entered  the 

house  with  the  stranger. 
Youthful  he  was  and  tall,  and  his  cheeks  aglow 

with  the  night  air  ; 
And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose,  and,  going  to 

meet  him, 

As  if  an  unsden  power  had  announced  and  pre 
ceded  his  presence, 
And  he  had  come  as  one  whose  coming  had  long 

been  expected, 
•Quietly  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  "  Thou  art 

welcome,  John  Estaugh. " 
And  the  stranger  replied,  with   staid  and  quiet 

behavior, 

' '  Dost  thou  remember  me  still,  Elizabeth  ?     Af 
ter  so  many 
Years  have  passed,  it  seemeth  a  wonderful  thing 

that  I  find  thee. 
Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  conducted  me  here 

to  thy  threshold. 
For  as  I  journeyed  along,  and  pondered  alone  and 

in  silence 
On  his  ways,  that  are  past  finding  out,  I  saw  in 

the  snow-mist, 
Seemingly  weary  with  travel,  a  wayfarer,  who  by 

the  wayside 
Paused   and  waited.     Forthwith  I   remembered 

Queen  Candace's  eunuch, 
How  on  the  way  that  goes  down  from  Jerusalem 

unto  Gaza, 
Reading  Esaias  the  Prophet,  he  journeyed,  and 

spake  unto  Philip, 
Praying  him  to  come  up  and  sit  in  his  chariot 

with  him. 
So  I  greeted  the  man,  and  he  mounted  the  sledge 

beside  me, 
And  as  we  talked  on  the  way  he  told  me  of  thee 

and  thy  homestead, 
How,   being  led  by  the  light  of  the  Spirit,  that 

never  deceiveth. 
Full  of  zeal  for  the  work  of  the  Lord,  thou  hadst 

come  to  this  country. 
And  I  remembered  thy  name,  and  thy  father  and 

mother  in  England, 
And  on  my  journey  have   stopped  to   see  thee, 

Elizabeth  Haddon, 
Wishing  to  strengthen  thy  hand  in  the  labors  of 

love  thou  art  doing. " 

And  Elizabeth  answered  with  confident  voice, 

and  serenely 
Looking  into  his  face  with  her  innocent  eyes  as 

she  answered, 
"  Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  in  it ;  his  Spirit 

hath  led  thee 
Out  of  the  darkness  and  storm  to  the  light  and 

peace  of  my  fireside." 

Then,  with  stamping  of  feet,  the  door  was 
opened,  and  Joseph 

Entered,  bearing  the  lantern,  and,  carefully  blow 
ing  the  light  out, 

Hung  it  up  on  its  nail,  and  all  sat  down  to  their 
supper ; 


For  underneath  that  roof  was  no  distinction  of 

persons, 
But  one  family  only,  one  heart,  one  hearth,  and 

one  household. 


When   the  supper  was  ended  they  drew  their 

chairs  to  the  fireplace, 
Spacious,  open-hearted,  profuse  of  flame  and  of 

firewood, 
Lord  of  forests   unfelled,  and  not  a  gleaner  of 

fagots, 
Spreading  its  arms  to  embrace  with  inexhaustible 

bounty 
All  who  fled  from  the  cold,  exultant,  laughing  at 

winter ! 
Only  Hannah  the  housemaid  was  busy  in  clearing 

the  table, 
Coming  and  going,  and  bustling  about  in  closet 

and  chamber. 


Then  Elizabeth  told  her  story  again  to  John 

Estaugh, 
Going  far  back  to  the  past,  to  the  early  days  of 

her  childhood ; 
How   she  had  waited   and  watched,  in  all   her 

doubts  and  besetments 
Comforted  with  the  extendings  and  holy,  sweet 

inflowings 
Of  the  spirit   of  love,  till  the  voice  imperative 

sounded, 
And  she  obeyed  the  voice,  and  cast  in  her  lot  with 

her  people 
Here  in  the  desert  land,  and  God  would  provide 

for  the  issue. 


Meanwhile  Joseph  sat  with  folded  hands,  and 

demurely 
Listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  and  in  the  silence 

that  followed 
Nothing  was  heard  for  a  while  but  the  step  of 

Hannah  the  housemaid 
Walking  the  floor    overhead,    and    setting    the 

chambers  in  order. 
And  Elizabeth  said,  with  a  smile  of  compassion, 

' '  The  maiden 
Hath  a  light  heart  in  her  breast,  but  her  feet  are 

heavy  and  awkward." 
Inwardly    Joseph    laughed,    but    governed     his 

tongue,  and  was  silent. 


Then  came  the  hour  of  sleep,  death's  counter 
feit,  nightly  rehearsal 

Of  the  great  Silent  Assembly,  the  Meeting  of 
shadows,  where  no  man 

Speaketh,  but  all  are  still,  and  the  peace  and  rest 
are  unbroken ! 

Silently  over  that  house  the  blessing  of  slumber 
descended. 

But  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  sun  up 
rose  in  his  splendor, 

Breaking  his  way  through  clouds  that  encum 
bered  his  path  in  the  heavens, 

Joseph  was  seen  with  his  sled  and  oxen  breaking 
a  pathway 

Through  the  drifts  of  snow ;  the  horses  already 
were  harnessed, 

And  John  Estaugh  was  standing  and  taking  leave 
at  the  threshold, 

Saying  that  he  should  return  at  the  Meeting  in 
May  ;  while  above  them 

Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  homely,  was  looking 
out  of  the  attic, 

Laughing  aloud  at  Joseph,  then  suddenly  closing 
the  casement, 

As  the  bird  in  a  cuckoo-clock  peeps  out  of  its 
window, 

Then  disappears  again,  and  closes  the  shutter  be 
hind  it. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN.  227 


III. 


his  guidance." 
Now  was  the  winter  gone,    and  the   snow ;    and 


Robin  the  Redbreast, 


Of  ray  own  heart  awhile,  and  listen  and  wait  for 


Then  Elizabeth  said,  not  troubled  nor  wounded 


Boasted  on  bush  and  tree  it  was  he,  it  was  he  and  in  spirit, 

no  other  "  So  is  it  best,  John  Estaugh.    We  will  not  speak 

That  had  covered  with  leaves  the  Babes  in   the  of  it  further. 

Wood,  and  blithely  It  hath  been  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thee  this,  for  to- 
All  the  birds  sang  with  him,  and  little  cared  for  morrow 

his  boasting,  Thou  art  going  away,  across  the  sea,  and  I  know 

Or  for  his  Babes  in  the  Wood,  or  the  Cruel  Uncle,  not 

and  only  When  I  shall  see  thee  more  ;  but  if  the  Lord  hath 

Sang  for  the  mates  they  had  chosen,  and  cared  decreed  ib. 

for  the  nests  they  were  building.  Thou  wilt  return  again  to  seek  me  here  and  to 

With  them,  but  more  sedately  and  meekly,  Eliza-  find  me." 

beth  Haddon  And  they  rode  onward  in  silence,  and  entered  the 

Sang  in  her  inmost  heart,  but  her  lips  were  silent  town  with  the  others. 

and  songle.--s. 

Thus  came  the  lovely  spring  with  a  rush  of  blos 
soms  and  music,  IV. 
Flooding  the  earth  with  flowers,  and  the  air  with 

melodies  vernal.  SHIPS  that  pass  in  the   night,   and  speak  each 

other  in  passing, 

Then  it  came  to  pass,  one  pleasant  morning,  Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in  the 

that  slowly  darkness  ; 

LTp  the  road  there  came  a  cavalcade,  as  of  pil-  So  on  the  ocean  of  life  we  pass  and  speak  one 

grims,  another, 

Men  and  women,  wending  their  way  to  the  Quar-  Only  a  look  and  a  voice,  then  darkness  again  and 

terly  Meeting  a  silence. 
In  the  neighboring  town ;  and  with  them  came 

riding  John  Estaugh.  Xow  went  Qn  ag  of  old  the       iefc  ufe  Q£  the 

At   Elizabeth  s  door  they  stopped   to  rest,   and  homestead 

Patient  and  unrepining  Elizabeth  labored,  in  all 

Tasted  the  currant  wine,  and  the  bread  of  rye,  things 

and  the  honey  Mindful  not  of  herself,  but  bearing  the  burdens 

Brought  from  the  hives,  that  stood  by  the  sunny  o£  otiiers 

wall  of  the  garden  ;  Always  thoughtful  and  kind  and  untroubled ;  and 

Then  remounted  their  horses,  refreshed,  and  con-  *  Hannah  the  housemaid 

A    /i     *mued  thelr  J()lf  ney.  Diligent  earlv  and  late,  and  rosy  with  washing 

And  Elizabeth  with  them,  and  Joseph,  and  Han-  anj  scJ|U.jno- 

nah  the  housemaid.  stm  ag  of"olcl  disparaged  the  eminent  merits  of 

But,  as  they  started,  Elizabeth  lingered  a  little,  Joseph 

and  leaning  An(1  wag  at 'tjmes  reprOved  for  her  light   and 

Over  her  horse  s  neck,  in  a  whisper  said  to  John  •  frothy  behavior 

For  her  shy  looks,  and  her  careless  words,  and 

"Tarry  awhile  behind,  for  I  have  something  to  jjer  e"vjj  sarmism(rs 

tell  thee.  Being  pressed  down  somewhat,  like  a  cart  with 

Not  to  be  spoken  lightly,  nor  in  the  presence  of  sheaves  overladen 

rri.        otnei  s  <  As  she  would  sometimes  say  to  Joseph,  quoting 

Ihem  it  coiicerneth  not,  only  thee  and  me  it  con-  tjle  gcripture« 

cerneth. " 
And  they  rode  slowly  along  through  the  woods, 

conversing  together  Meanwhile  John  Estaugh  departed  across  the 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  breathe  the  fragrant  air  of  ,        .   snea:  and  departing 

the  forest  •  Carried  hid  in  his  heart  a  secret  sacred  and  pre- 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  live  on  that  bright  and  happy  n       .     cyus< 

May  morning  '  *  "Img  lts  chambers  with  fragrance,  and  seeming 

to  him  in  its  sweetness 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  though  still  with  a  certain  Mary's  ointment  of  spikenard,  that  filled  all  the 

reluctance  house  with  it*  odor. 

As  if  impelled  to  reveal  a  secret  she  fain  would  °  lost  da>'s  °f  Alight,  that  are  wasted  in  doubt- 
have  "uarded  •  ln=  a       waiting ! 
'  I  will  no  longer  conceal  what  is  laid  upon  me  to  °  lost,  hours  and,  da>'s  in  which  we  miSht  have 

tell  thee  •  been  happy  ! 

I  have  received  from  the  Lord  a  charge  to  love  But  the  light  shone  at  last,  and  guided  his  waver- 

thee,  John  Estaugh."  ,     mg  footsteps 

And  at  last  came  the  voice,  imperative,  question- 

And  John  Estaugh  made  answer,  surprised  by  *ess'  cel'taln- 

the  words  she  had  spoken, 

"  Pleasant  to  me  are  thy  converse,  thy  ways,  thy  Then  John  Estaugh  came  back  o'er  the  sea  for 

meekness  of  spirit ;  the  gift  that  was  offered, 

Pleasant  thy  frankness  of  speech,  and  thy  soul's  Better   than    houses   and   lands,    the   gift    of    a 

immaculate  whiteness,  woman's  affection. 

Love  without  dissimulation,  a  holy  and  inward  And  on  the  First-Day  that  followed,  he  rose  in 

adorning.  the  Silent  Assembly, 

But  I  have  yet  no  light  to  lead  me,  no  voice  to  Holding  in  his  strong  hand  a  hand  that  trembled 

direct  me.  a  little. 

When  the  Lord's  work  is  done,  and  the  toil  and  Promising  to  be  kind  and  true  and  faithful  in  all 

the  labor  completed  things. 

He  hath  appointed  to  me,  I  will  gather  into  the  Such  svere  the  marriage-rites  of  John  and  Eliza- 
stillness  both  Estaugh. 


228 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  not  otherwise  Joseph,  the  honest,  the  dili 
gent  servant. 

Sped  in  his  bashful  wooing  with  homely  Hannah 
the  housemaid ; 

For  when  he  asked  her  the  question,  she  answered, 
"  Nay ;  "  and  then  added  : 

"  But  thee  may  make  believe,  and  see  what  will 
come  of  it,  Joseph. " 


INTERLUDE. 

"A  PLEASANT  and  a  winsome  tale," 

The  Student  said,  "  though  somewhat  pale 

And  quiet  in  its  coloring, 

As  if  it  caught  its  tone  and  air 

From  the  gray  suits  that  Quakers  wear  ; 

Yet  worthy  of  some  German  bard, 

Hebel,  or  Voss,  or  Eberhard, 

Who  love  of  humble  themes  to  sing, 

In  humble  verse  ;  but  no  more  true 

Than  was  the  tale  I  told  to  you. " 

The  Theologian  made  reply, 

And  with  some  warmth,  ' '  That  I  deny  ; 

'Tis  no  invention  of  my  own, 

But  something  well  and  widely  known 

To  readers  of  a  riper  age, 

Writ  by  the  skilful  hand  that  wrote 

The  Indian  tale  of  Hobomok, 

And  Philothea's  classic  page. 

I  found  it  like  a  waif  afloat, 

Or  dulse  uprooted  from  its  rock, 

On  the  swift  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 

In  daily  papers,  and  at  flood 

Bear  freighted  vessels  to  and  fro, 

But  later,  when  the  ebb  is  low, 

Leave  a  long  waste  of  sand  and  mud." 

"  It  matters  little,"  quoth  the  Jew ; 
"The  cloak  of  truth  is  lined  with  lies, 
Sayeth  some  proverb  old  and  wise  ; 
And  Love  is  master  of  all  arts, 
And  puts  it  into  human  hearts 
The  strangest  things  to  say  and  do. " 

And  here  the  controversy  closed 

Abruptly,  ere  't  was  well  begun ; 

For  the  Sicilian  interposed 

With  "  Lordlings,  listen,  every  one 

That  listen  may,  unto  a  tale 

That 's  merrier  than  the  nightingale ; 

A  tale  that  cannot  boast,  forsooth, 

A  single  rag  or  shred  of  truth  ; 

That  does  not  leave  the  mind  in  doubt 

As  to  the  with  it  or  without ; 

A  naked  falsehood  and  absurd 

As  mortal  ever  told  or  heard. 

Therefore  I  tell  it ;  or,  maybe. 

Simply  because  it  pleases  me." 


THE   SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

THE   MONK  OF   CASAL-MAGGIORE. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  some  centuries  ago, 
In  the  hot  sunshine  two  Franciscan  friars 

Wended  their  weary  way  with  footsteps  slow 
Back  to  their  convent,  whose  white  walls  and 
spires 

Gleamed  on  the  hillside  like  a  patch  of  snow ; 
Covered  with  dust  they  were,  and  torn  by  briers, 

And  bore  like  sumpter-mules  upon  their  backs 

The  badge  of  poverty,  their  beggar's  sacks. 

The  first  was  Brother  Anthony,  a  spare 

And  silent  man,  with  pallid  cheeks  and  thin, 

Much  given  to  vigils,  penance,  fasting,  prayer, 
Solemn  and  gray,  and  worn  with  discipline, 

As  if  his  body  but  white  ashes  were, 

Heaped  on  the  living  coals  that  glowed  within ; 


A  simple  monk,  like  many  of  his  day, 
Whose  instinct  was  to  listen  and  obey. 

A  different  man  was  Brother  Timothy, 
Of  larger  mould  and  of  a  coarser  paste  ; 

A  rubicund  and  stalwart  monk  was  he, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  broader  in  the  waist, 

Who  often  filled  the  dull  refectory 

With  noise  by  which  the  convent  was  disgraced, 

But  to  the  mass-book  gave  but  little  heed, 

By  reason  he  had  never  learned  to  read. 

:  Now,  as  they  passed  the  outskirts  of  a  wood, 

They  saw,  with  mingled  pleasure  and  surprise, 
Fast  tethered  to  a  tree  an  ass,  that  stood 
Lazily  winking  his  large,  limpid  eyes. 

I  The  farmtr  Gilbert  of  that  neighborhood 
His  owner  was,  who,  looking  for  supplies 

!  Of  fagots,  deeper  in  the  wood  had  strayed, 

{  Leaving  his  beast  to  ponder  in  the  shade. 

i  As  soon  as  Brother  Timothy  espied 

The  patient  animal,  he  said  :   "  Good-lack  ! 
'  Thus  for  our  needs  doth  Providence  provide  ; 

We'll  lay  our  wallets  on  the  creature's  back." 
This  being  done,  he  leisurely  untied 

From  head  and  neck  the  halter  of  the  jack, 
And  put  it  round  his  own,  and  to  the  tree 
Stood  tethered  fast  as  if  the  ass  were  he. 

And,  bursting  forth  into  a  merry  laugh, 
He  cried  to  Brother  Anthony  :   "  Away  ! 

And  drive  the  ass  before  you  with  your  staff; 
And  when  you  reach  the  convent  you  may  say 

You  left  me  at  a  farm,  half  tired  and  half 
111  with  a  fever,  for  a  night  and  day, 

And  that  the  farmer  lent  this  ass  to  bear 

Our  wallets,  that  are  heavy  with  good  fare." 

Now  Brother  Anthony,  who  knew  the  pranks 
Of  Brother  Timothy,  would  not  persuade 

Or  reason  with  him  on  his  quirks  and  cranks, 
But,  being  obedient,  silently  obeyed  ; 

And,  smiting  with  his  staff'  the  ass's  flanks, 
Drove  him  before  him  over  hill  and  glade, 

Safe  with  his  provend  to  the  convent  gate, 

Leaving  poor  Brother  Timothy  to  his  fate. 

Then  Gilbert,  laden  with  fagots  for  his  fire, 
Forth  issued  from  the  wood,  and  stood  aghast 

To  see  the  ponderous  body  of  the  friar 

Standing  where  he  had  left  his  donkey  last. 

Trembling  he  stood,  and  dared  not  venture  nigher, 
But  stared,  and  gaped,  and  crossed  himself  full 
fast; 

For,  being  credulous  and  of  little  wit, 

He  thought  it  was  some  demon  from  the  pit. 

While  speechless  and  bewildered  thus  he  gazed, 
And  dropped  his  load  of  fagots  on  the  ground, 

Quoth  Brother  Timothy  :  "Be  not  amazed 
That  where  you  left  a  donkey  should  be  found 

A  poor  Franciscan  friar,  half -starved  and  crazed, 
Standing  demure  and  with  a  halter  bound  ; 

But  set  me  free,  and  hear  the  piteous  story 

Of  Brother  Timothy  of  Casal-Maggiore 

u  I  am  a  sinful  man,  although  you  see 
I  wear  the  consecrated  cowl  and  cape ; 

You  never  owned  an  ass,  but  you  owned  me, 
Changed  and  transformed  from  my  own  natural 
shape 

All  for  the  deadly  sin  of  gluttony, 
From  which  1  could  not  otherwise  escape, 

Than  by  this  penance,  dieting  on  grass, 

And  being  worked  and  beaten  as  an  ass. 

"  Think  of  the  ignominy  I  endured  ; 

Think  of  the  miserable  life  I  led, 
The  toil  and  blows  to  which  I  was  inured, 

My  wretched  lodging  in  a  windy  shed, 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


229 


My  scanty  fare  so  grudgingly  procured, 

The  damp  and  musty  straw  that  formed  my  bed  ! 
Put,  having  done  this  penance  for  my  sins, 
My  life  as  man  and  monk  again  begins. " 

The  simple  Gilbert,  hearing  words  like  these, 
Was  conscience-stricken,  and  fell  down  apace 

Before  the  friar  upon  his  bended  knees, 

And  with  a  suppliant  voice  implored  his  grace  ; 

And  the  good  monk,  now  very  much  at  ease, 
Granted  him  pardon  with  a  smiling  face. 

Nor  could  refuse  to  be  that  night  his  guest, 

It  being  late,  and  he  in  need  of  rest. 

Upon  a  hillside,  where  the  olive  thrives. 

With  figures  painted  on  its  whitewashed  walls, 
The  cottage  stood  ;  and  near  the  humming  hives 

Made  murmurs  as  of  far-off  water-falls  ; 
A  place  where  those  who  love  secluded  lives 

Might  live  content,  and,  free  from  noise  and 

brawls, 

Like  Claiulian's  Old  Man  of  Verona  here 
Measure  by  fruits  the  slow-revolving  year. 

And,  coming  to  this  cottage  of  content, 

They  found  his  children,  and  the  buxom  wench 

His  wife.  Dame  Cicely,  and  his  father,  bent 
With  years  and  labor,  seated  on  a  bench, 

Repeating  over  some  obscure  event 

In  the  old  wars  of  Milanese  and  French  ; 

All  welcomed  the  Franciscan,  with  a  sense 

Of  sacred  awe  and  humble  reverence. 

When  Gilbert  told  them  what  had  come  to  pass, 
How  beyond  question,  cavil,  or  surmise, 

Good  Brother  Timothy  had  been  their  ass, 

You  should  have  seen  the  wonder  in  their  eyes  ; 

You  should  have  heard  them  cry,  "  Alas  !  alas  !  " 
Have  heard  their  lamentations  and  their  sighs  ! 

For  all  believed  the  story,  and  began 

To  see  a  saint  in  this  afflicted  man. 

Forthwith  there  was  prepared  a  grand  repast, 

To  satisfy  the  craving  of  the  friar 
After  so  rigid  and  prolonged  a  fast ; 

The  bustling  housewife  stirred  the  kitchen  fire  ; 
Then  her  two  favorite  pullets  and  her  last 

Were  put  to  death,  at  her  express  desire, 
And  served  up  with  a  salad  in  a  bowl. 
And  flasks  of  country  wine  to  crown  the  whole. 

It  would  not  be  believed  should  I  repeat 
How  hungry  Brother  Timothy  appeared  ; 

It  was  a  pleasure  but  to  see  him  eat, 

His    white   teeth  flashing   through   his   russet 
beard, 

His  face  aglow  and  flushed  with  wine  and  meat, 
His  roguish  eyes  that  rolled  and  laughed  and 
leered  ! 

Lord  !  how  he  drank  the  blood-red  country  wine 

As  if  the  village  vintage  were  divine  ! 

A.nd  all  the  while  he  talked  without  surcease, 
And  told  his  merry  tales  with  jovial  glee 

That  never  flagged,  but  rather  did  increase, 
And  laughed  aloud  as  if  insane  were  he, 

A.nd  wagged  his  red  beard,  matted  like  a  fleece, 
And  cast  such  glances  at  Dame  Cicely 

That  Gilbcft  now  grew  angry  with  his  guest, 

And  thus  in  words  his  rising  wrath  expressed. 

''  Good  father,"  said  he,  "easily  we  see 
How  needful  in  some  persons,  and  how  right, 

Mortification  of  the  flesh  may  be. 
The  indulgence  you  have  given  it  to  night, 

After  long  penance,  clearly  proves  to  me 

Your  strength  against  temptation  is  but  slight, 

And  shows  the  dreadful  peril  you  are  in 

Of  a  relapse  into  your  deadly  sin. 


"  To-morrow  morning,  with  the  rising  sun, 
Go  back  unto  your  convent,  nor  refrain 

From  fasting  and  from  scourging,  for  you  run 
Great  danger  to  become  an  ass  again, 

Since  monkish  flesh  and  asinine  are  one ; 
Therefore  be  wise,  nor  longer  here  remain, 

Unless  you  wish  the  scourge  should  be  applied 

By  other  hands,  that  will  not  spare  your  hide." 

When  this  the  monk  had  heard,  his  color  fled 
And  then  returned  like  lightning  in  the  air, 

Till  he  was  all  one  blush  from  foot  to  head, 
And  even  the  bald  spot  in  his  russet  hair 

Turned  from  its  usual  pallor  to  bright  red  ! 
The  old  man  was  asleep  upon  his  chair. 

Then  all  retired,  and  sank  into  the  deep 

And  helpless  imbecility  of  sleep. 

They  slept  until  the  dawn  of  day  drew  near, 
Till  the  cock  should  have  crowed,  but  did  not 
crow, 

For  they  had  slain  the  shining  chanticleer 
And  eaten  him  for  supper,  as  you  know. 

The  monk  was  up  betimes  and  of  good  cheer, 
And,  having  breakfasted,  made  haste  to  go, 

As  if  he  heard  the  distant  matin  bell. 

And  had  but  little  time  to  say  farewell. 

Fresh  was  the  morning  as  the  breath  of  kine  ; 
Odors  of  herbs  commingled  with  the  sweet 
Balsamic  exhalations  of  the  pine  ; 

A  haze  was  in  the  air  presaging  heat ; 
|  Uprose  the  sun  above  the  Apennine, 

And  all  the  misty  valleys  at  its  feet 
!  Were  full  of  the  delirious  song  of  birds, 
Voices  of  men,  and  bells,  and  low  of  herds. 

All  this  to  Brother  Timothy  was  naught  ; 

He  did  not  care  for  scenery,  nor  here 
His  busy  fancy  found  the  thing  it  sought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  convent  walls  appear, 
And   smoke    from    kitchen     chimneys    upward 
caught 

And  whirled  aloft  into  the  atmosphere. 
He  quickened  his  slow  footsteps,  like  a  beast 
That  scents  the  stable  a  league  off  at  least. 

And  as  he  entered  through  the  convent  gate 
He  saw  there  in  the  court  the  ass,  who  stood 

Twirling  his  ears  about,  and  seemed  to  wait, 
Just  as  he  found  him  waiting  in  the  wood  ; 

And  told  the  Prior  that,  to  alleviate 
The  daily  labors  of  the  brotherhood. 

The  owner,  being  a  man  of  means  and  thrift, 

Bestowed  him  on  the  convent  as  a  gift. 

And  thereupon  the  Prior  for  many  days 
Revolved  this  serious  matter  in  his  mind, 

And  turned  it  over  many  different  ways, 
Hoping  that  some  safe  issue  he  might  find  ; 

But  stood  in  fear  of  what  the  world  would  say, 
If  he  accepted  presents  of  this  kind. 

Employing  beasts  of  burden  for  the  packs 

That  lazy  monks  should  carry  011  their  backs. 

Then,  to  avoid  all  scandal  of  the  sort. 

And  stop  the  mouth  of  cavil,  he  decreed 
That  he  would  cut  the  tedious  matter  short, 

And  sell  the  ass  with  all  convenient  speed, 
Thus  saving  the  expense  of  his  support, 

And  hoarding  something  for  a  time  of  need. 
So  he  despatched  him  to  the  neighboring  Fair, 
And  freed  himself  from  cumber  and  from  care. 

It  happened  now  by  chance,  as  some  might  say, 
Others  perhaps  would  call  it  destiny, 

Gilbert  was  at  the  Fair;  and  heard  a  bray, 
And  nearer  came,  and  saw  that  it  was  he, 


230 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


whispered  in  his  ear,  "Ah,  lackaday  ! 
Good  father,  the  rebellious  flesh,  I  see, 
Has  changed  you  back  into  an  ass  again, 
And  all  ray  admonitions  were  in  vain." 

The  ass,  who  felt  this  breathing  in  his  ear, 
Did  not  turn  round  to  look,  but  shook  his  head 

As  if  he  were  not  pleased  these  words  to  hear, 
And  contradicted  all  that  had  been  said. 

And  this  made  Gilbert  cry  in  voice  more  clear, 
"  I  know  you  well ;  your  hair  is  russet-red  ; 

Do  not  deny  it ;  for  you  are  the  same 

Franciscan  friar,  and  Timothy  by  name." 

The  ass,  though  now  the  secret  had  come  out. 

Was  obstinate,  and  shook  his  head  again  ; 
Until  a  crowd  was  gathered  round  about 

To  hear  this  dialogue  between  the  twain  ; 
And  raised  their  voices  in  a  noisy  shout 

When  Gilbert  tried  to  make  the  matter  plain, 
And  flouted  him  and  mocked  him  all  day  long 
With  laughter  and  with  jibes  and  scraps  of   song. 

"  If  this  be  Brother  Timothy,"  they  cried, 
"Buy   him,    and  feed    him  on  the  tenderest 
grass ; 

Thou  canst  not  do  too  much  for  one  so  tried 
As  to  be  twice  transformed  into  an  ass." 

So  simple  Gilbert  bought'him,  and  untied 
His  halter,  and  o'er  mountain  and  morass, 

He  led  him  homeward,  talking  as  he  went 

Of  good  behavior  and  a  mind  content. 

The  children  saw  them  coming,  and  advanced, 
Shouting  with  joy,  and  hung  about  his  neck, — 

Not  Gilbert's,  but  the  ass's, — round  him  danced, 
And  wove  green  garlands  wherewithal  to  deck 

His  sacred  person  ;  for  again  it  chanced 
Their  childish  feelings,  without  rein  or  check, 

Could  not  discriminate  in  any  way 

A  donkey  from  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

"  O  Brother  Timothy,"  the  children  said, 
"You  have  come  back  to  us  just  as  before ; 

We  were  afraid,  and  thought  that  you  were  dead, 
And  we  should  never  see  you  any  more." 

And  then  they  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  head, 
That  like  a  birth-mark  or  a  badge  he  wore, 

And  patted  him  upon  the  neck  and  face, 

And  said  a  thousand  things  with  childish  grace. 

^henceforward  and  forever  he  was  known 
As  Brother  Timothy,  and  led  alway 

A  life  of  luxury,  till  lie  had  grown 

Ungrateful,  being  stuffed  with  corn  and  hay, 

And  very  vicious.     Then  in  angry  tone, 
Rousing  himself,  poor  Gilbert  said  one  day, 

"  When  simple  kindness  is  misunderstood 

A  little  flagellation  may  do  good." 

His  many  vices  need  not  here  be  told ; 

Among  them  was  a  habit  that  he  had 
Of  flinging  up  his  heels  at  young  and  old, 

Breaking  his  halter,  running  off  like  mad 
O'er  pasture-lands  and  meadow,  wood  and  wold, 

And  other  misdemeanors  quite  as  bad  ; 
But  worst  of  all  was  breaking  from  his  shed 
At  night,  and  ravaging  the  cabbage-bed. 

So  Brother  Timothy  went  back  once  more 
To  his  old  life  of  labor  and  distress  : 

Was  beaten  worse  than  he  had  been  before. 
And  now,  instead  of  comfort  and  caress, 

Came  labors  manifold  and  trials  sore  ; 

And  as  his  toils  increased  his  food  grew  less 

Until  at  last  the  great  consoler.  Death, 

Ended  his  many  sufferings  with  his  breath. 


Great  was  the  lamentation  when  he  died  ; 

And  mainly  that  he  died  impenitent ; 
Dame  Cicely  bewailed,  the  children  cried, 

The  old  man  still  remembered  the  event 
In  the  French  war,  and  Gilbert  magnified 

His  many  virtues,  as  he  came  and  went, 
And  said  :  "  Heaven  pardon  Brother  Timothy 
And  keep  us  from  the  sin  of  gluttony. " 


INTERLUDE. 

"  SIGNOR  LUIGI,"  said  the  Jew, 
When  the  Sicilian's  tale  was  told, 
"  The  were-wolf  is  a  legend  old, 
But  the  were-ass  is  something  new, 
And  yet  for  one  I  think  it  true. 
The  days  of  wonder  have  not  ceased  ; 
If  there  are  beasts  in  forms  of  men, 
As  sure  it  happens  now  and  then, 
Why  may  not  man  become  a  beast, 
In  way  of  punishment  at  least '{ 

"  But  this  I  will  not  now  discuss ; 

I  leave  the  theme,  that  we  may  thus 

Remain  within  the  realm  of  song. 

The  story  that  I  told  before. 

Though  not  acceptable  to  all, 

At  least  you  did  not  find  too  long. 

I  beg  you,  let  me  try  again. 

With  something  in  a  different  vein, 

Before  you  bid  the  curtain  fall. 

Meanwhile  keep  watch  npon  the  door, 

Nor  let  the  Landlord  leave  his  chair, 

Lest  he  should  vanish  into  air, 

And  thus  elude  our  search  once  more.' 

Thus  saying,  from  his  lips  he  blew 
A  little  cloud  of  perfumed  breath, 
And  then,  as  if  it  were  a  clew 
To  lead  his  footsteps  safely  through, 
Began  his  tale  as  followeth. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  SECOND  TALE. 

SCANDERBEG. 

THE  battle  is  fought  and  won 
ByvKing  Ladislaus  the  Hun, 
In  fire  of  hell  and  death's  frost, 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost. 
And  in  route  before  his  path 
From  the  field  of  battle  red 
Flee  all  that  are  not  dead 
Of  the  army  of  Amurath. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Iskander,  the  pride  and  boast 
Of  that  mighty  Othman  host, 
With  his  routed  Turks,  takes  flight 
From  the  battle  fought  and  lost 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost ; 
Leaving  behind  him  dead 
The  army  of  Amurath, 
The  vanguard  as  it  led. 
The  rearguard  as  it  fled, 
Mown  down  in  the  bloody  swath 
Of  the  battle's  aftermath. 

But  he  cared  not  for  Hospodars, 
Nor  for  Baron  or  Voivode, 
As  on  through  the  night  he  rode 
And  gazed  at  the  fateful  stars, 
That  were  shining  overhead  ; 
But  smote  his  steed  with  his  staff, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  said  : 
"  This  is  the  time  to  laugh." 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


231 


In  the  middle  of  the  night, 

In  a  halt  of  the  hurrying  night, 

There  came  a  Scribe  of  the  King 

Wearing  his  signet  ring, 

And  said  in  a  voice  severe ; 

"  This  is  the  first  dark  blot, 

On  thy  name,  George  Castriot  ! 

Alas  !  why  art  thou  here, 

And  the  array  of  Amuratii  slain, 

And  left  on  the  battle  plain '?  " 

And  Iskander  answered  and  said  : 
' '  They  lie  on  the  bloody  sod 
By  the  hoofs  of  horses  trod  ; 
But  this  was  the  decree 
Of  the  watchers  overhead ; 
For  the  war  belongeth  to  God, 
And  in  battle  who  are  we, 
Who  are  we,  that  shall  withstand 
The  wind  of  his  lifted  hand  ?  " 

Then  he  bade  them  bind  with  chains 
This  man  of  books  and  brains  ; 
And  the  Scribe  said  :   "  What  misdeed 
Have  I  done,  that,  without  need, 
Thou  doest  to  me  this  thing  "'  " 
And  Iskander  answering 
Said  unto  him:   "Not one 
Misdeed  to  me  hast  thou  done  ; 
But  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  run 
And  hide  thyself  from  me, 
Have  I  done  this  unto  thee. 

"Now  write  me  a  writing,  O  Scribe, 

And  a  blessing  be  on  thy  tribe  ! 

A  writing  sealed  with  thy  ring, 

To  Kin^  Amurath's  Pasha 

In  the  city  of  Croia, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

That  he  surrender  the  same 

In  the  name  of  my  master,  the  King  ; 

For  what  is  writ  in  his  name 

Can  never  be  recalled." 

And  the  Scribe  bowed  low  in  dread, 

And  unto  Iskander  said  : 

"  Allah  is  great  and  just, 

But  we  are  as  ashes  and  dust ; 

How  shall  I  do  this  thing. 

When  I  know  that  my  guilty  head 

Will  be  forfeit  to  the  King  't  " 

Then  swift  as  a  shooting  star 

The  curved  and  shining  blade 

Of  Iskander 's  scimetar 

From  its  sheath,  with  jewels  bright, 

tS.hot,  as  he  thundered  :   ''  Write  !  " 

And  the  trembling  Scribe  obeyed, 

And  wrote  in  the  ritf  ul  glare 

Of  the  bivouac  lire  apart. 

With  the  chill  of  the  midnight  air 

On  his  iorehead  white  and  bare. 

And  the  chill  of  death  in  his  heart. 

Then  again  Iskander  cried  : 
"  Now  follow  whither  I  ride, 
For  here  thou  must  not  stay. 
Thou  shalt  be  as  my  dearest  friend, 
And  honors  without  end 
Shall  surround  thee  on  every  side, 
And  attend  thee  night  and  day." 
But  the  sullen  Scribe  replied  : 
"  Our  pathways  here  divide  ; 
Mine  leadeth  not  thy  way." 

And  even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  a  sudden  scimetar-stroke. 

When  no  one  else  was  near  ; 

And  the  Scribe  sank  to  the  ground, 

As  a  stone,  pushed  from  the  brink 

<  >f  a  black  pool,  might  sink 

With  a  sob,  and  disappear  ; 


And  no  one  saw  the  deed  ; 

And  in  the  stillness  around 

No  sound  was  heard  but  the  sound 

Of  the  hoofs  of  Iskander's  steed, 

As  forward  he  sprang  with  a  bound. 

Then  onward  he  rode  and  afar, 
With  scarce  three  hundred  men, 
Through  river  and  forest  and  fen, 
O'er  the  mountains  of  Argentar  ; 
And  his  heart  was  merry  within, 
When  he  crossed  the  river  Drin, 
And  saw  in  the  gleam  of  the  morn 
The  White  Castle  Ak-Hissar, 
The  city  Croia  called. 
The  city  moated  and  walled, 
The  city  where  he  was  born, — 
And  above  it  the  morning  star. 

Then  his  trumpeters  in  the  van 
On  their  silver  bugles  blew. 
And  in  crowds  about  him  ran 
Albanian  and  Turkoman, 
That  the  sound  together  drew. 
And  he  feasted  with  his  friends. 
And  when  they  were  warm  with  wine, 
He  said  :   "  O  friends  of  mine, 
Behold  what  fortune  sends, 
And  what  the  fates  design  ! 
King  Amurath  commands 
That  my  father's  wide  domain, 
This  city  and  all  its  lands, 
Shall  be  given  to  me  again." 

Then  to  the  Castle  White 
He  rode  in  regal  state, 
And  entered  in  at  the  gate 
In  all  his  arms  bedight. 
And  gave  to  the  Pasha 
Who  ruled  in  Croia 
The  writing  of  the  King, 
Sealed  with  his  signet  ring. 
And  the  Pasha  bowed  his  head. 
And  after  a  silence  said  : 
"  Allah  is  just  and  great ! 
1  yield  to  the  will  divine, 
The  city  and  lands  are  thine  ; 
Who  shall  contend  with  fate  '?.  " 

Anon  from  the  castle  walls 

The  crescent  banner  falls. 

And  the  crowd  beholds  instead. 

Like  a  portent  in  the  sky, 

Iskander's  banner  fly. 

The  Black  Eagle  with  double  head  ; 

And  a  shout  ascends  on  high, 

For  men's  sonls  are  tired  of  the  Turks. 

And  their  wicked  ways  and  works. 

That  have  made  of  Ak-Hissar 

A  city  of  the  plague  ; 

And  a  loud,  exultant  cry 

That  echoes  wide  and  far 

is  :   "  Long  live  Scanderbeg  !  " 

It  was  thus  Iskander  came 

Once  more  unto  his  own  ; 

And  the  tidings,  like  the  flame 

Of  a  conflagration  blown 

But  the  winds  of  summer,  ran, 

Till  the  land  was  in  a  blaze. 

And  the  cities  far  and  near, 

Sayeth  Ben  Joshua  Ben  Meir, 

In  his  Book  of  the  Words  of  theDiivs, 

"  Were  taken  as  a  man 

Would  take  the  tip  of  his  ear." 


INTERLUDE. 

"  Now  that  is  after  my  own  heart," 
The  Poet  cried;  "one  understands 


232 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


Your  swarthy  hero  Scanderbeg, 
Gauntlet  on  hand  and  boot  on  leg, 
And  skilled  in  every  warlike  art, 
Hiding  through  his  Albanian  lands, 
And  following  the  auspicious  star 
That  shone  for  him  o'er  Ak-Hissar. " 

The  Theologian  added  here 

His  word  of  praise  not  Jess  sincere, 

Although  he  ended  with  a  jibe  ; 

' '  The  hero  of  romance  and  song 

Was  born,"  he  said,  "  to  right  the  wrong; 

And  I  approve  ;  but  all  the  same 

That  bit  of  treason  with  the  Scribe 

Adds  nothing  to  your  hero's  fame. " 

The  Student  praised  the  good  old  times, 
And  liked  the  canter  of  the  rhymes, 
That  had  a  hoof  beat  in  their  sound ; 
But  longed  some  further  word  to  hear 
Of  the  old  chronicler  Ben  Heir, 
And  where  his  volume  might  be  found. 
The  tall  Musician  walked  the  room 
With  folded  arms  and  gleaming  eyes, 
As  if  he  saw  the  Vikings  rise, 
Gigantic  shadows  in  the  gloom  ; 
And  much  he  talked  of  their  emprise, 
And  meteors  seen  in  Northern  skies, 
And  Heimdal's  horn,  and  day  of  doom. 
But  the  Sicilian  -laughed  again  ; 
"This  is  the  time  to  laugh,"  he  said, 
For  the  whole  story  he  well  knew 
Was  an  invention  of  the  Jew, 
Spun  from  the  cobwebs  in  his  brain, 
And  of  the  same  bright  scarlet  thread 
As  was  the  Tale  of  Kambalu. 

Only  the  Landlord  spake  no  word  ; 
'T  was  doubtful  whether  he  had  heard 
The  tale  at  all,  so  full  of  care 
Was  he  of  his  impending  fate, 
That,  like  the  sword  of  Damocles, 
Above  his  head  hung  blank  and  bare, 
Suspended  by  a  single  hair, 
So  that  he  could  not  sit  at  ease, 
But  sighed  and  looked  disconsolate, 
And  shifted  restless  in  his  chair, 
Revolving  how  he  might  evade 
The  blow  of  the  descending  blade. 

The  Student  came  to  his  relief 
By  saying  in  his  easy  way 
To  the  Musician  :   ' '  Calm  your  grief, 
My  fair  Apollo  of  the  North, 
Balder  the  Beautiful  and  so  forth  ; 
Although  your  magic  lyre  or  lute 
With  broken  strings  is  lying  mute, 
Still  you  can  tell  some  doleful  tale 
Of  shipwreck  in  a  midnight  gale, 
Or  something  of  the  kind  to  suit 
The  mood  that  we  are  in  to-night 
For  what  is  marvellous  and  strange  ; 
So  give  your  nimble  fancy  range, 
And  we  will  follow  in  its  flight. " 

But  the  Musician  shook  his  head ; 
"  No  tale  I  tell  to-night,"  he  said, 
"  While  my  poor  instrument  lies  there. 
Even  as  a  child  with  vacant  stare 
Lies  in  its  little  coffin  dead." 

Yet,  being  urged,  he  said  at  last  : 

' '  There  comes  to  me  out  of  the  Past 

A  voice,  whose  tones  are  sweet  and  wild, 

Singing1  a  song  almost  divine, 

And  with  a  tear  in  every  line ; 

An  ancient  ballad,  that  my  nurse 

Sang  to  me  when  I  was  a  child. 

In  accents  tender  as  the  verse  ; 

And  sometimes  wept,  and  sometimes  smiled 


While  singing  it,  to  see  arise 
The  look  of  wonder  in  my  eyes, 
And  feel  my  heart  with  terror  beat. 
This  simple  ballad  I  retain 
Clearly  imprinted  on  my  brain, 
And  as  a  tale  will  now  repeat. 


THE   MUSICIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  MOTHER'S  GHOST. 

SVEND  DYKING  he  rideth  adown  the  glade ; 

/  myself  was  young  ! 
There  he  hath  wooed  him  so  winsome  a  maid ; 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 

Together  were  they  for  seven  years, 
And  together  children  six  were  theirs. 

Then  came  Death  abroad  through  the  land, 
And  blighted  the  beautiful  lily-wand. 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade, 
And  again  hath  he  wooed  him  another  maid. 

He  hath  wooed  him  a  maid  and  brought  home  a 

bride, 
But  she  was  bitter  and  full  of  pride. 

When  she  came  driving  into  the  yard, 
There  stood  the  six  children  weeping  so  hard. 

There  stood   the  small  children  with    sorrowful 

heart; 
\  From  before  her  feet  she  thrust  them  apart. 

She  gave  them  neither  ale  nor  bread ; 

"  Ye  shall  suffer  hunger  and  hate,"  she  said. 

She  took  from  them  their  quilts  of  blue. 

And  said  :   "  Ye  shall  lie  on  the  straw  we  strew." 

She  took  from  them  the  great  waxlight  ; 
"  Now  ye  shall  lie  in  the  dark  at  night." 

In  the  evening  late  they  cried  with  cold  ; 
The  mother  heard  it  under  the  mould. 

The  woman  heard  it  the  earth  below  : 
"  To  my  little  children  I  must  go." 

She  standeth  before  the  Lord  of  all : 

"  And  may  I  go  to  my  children  small  ? "' 

She  prayed  him  so  long,  and  would  not  cease, 
Until  he  bade  her  depart  in  peace. 

"  At  cock-crow  thou  shalt  return  again 
Longer  thou  shalt  not  there  remain  !  " 

She  girded  up  her  sorrowful  bones, 

And  rifted  the  walls  and  the  marble  stones. 

As  through  the  village  she  flitted  by, 
The  watch-dogs  howled  aloud  to  the  sky. 

When  she  came  to  the  castle  gate, 
There  stood  her  eldest  daughter  in  wait. 

"  Why  standest  thou  here,  dear  daughter  mine  ? 
How  fares  it  with  brothers  and  sisters  thine  V  " 

"Never  art  thou  mother  of  mine, 
For  my  mother  was  both  fair  and  fine. 

"  My  mother  was  white,  with  cheeks  of  red, 
But  thou  art  pale,  and  like  to  the  dead." 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


233 


"How  should  I  be  fair  and  fine  ? 

I  have  been  dead  ;  pale  cheeks  are  mine. 

"  How  should  I  be  white  and  red, 
So  long,  so  long  have  I  been  dead  'i  " 

When  she  came  in  at  the  chamber  door, 
There  stood  the  small  children  weeping  sore. 

One  she  braided,  another  she  brushed, 
The  third  she  lifted,  the  fourth  she  hushed. 

The  fifth  she  took  on  her  lap  and  pressed, 
As  if  she  would  suckle  it  at  her  breast. 

Then  to  her  eldest  daughter  said  she, 

'"  Do  thou  bid  Svend  Dyring  come  hither  to  me. 

Into  the  chamber  when  he  came 

She  spake  to  him  in  anger  and  shame. 

"  I  left  behind  me  both  ale  and  bread  ; 
My  children  hunger  and  are  not  fed. 

"  I  left  behind  me  quilts  of  blue ; 
My  children  lie  on  the  straw  ye  strew. 

"  I  left  behind  me  the  great  waxlight ; 
My  children  lie  in  the  dark  at  night. 

"If  I  come  again  unto  your  hall, 
As  cruel  a  fate  shall  you  befall ! 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  red  ; 
Back  to  the  earth  must  all  the  dead. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  swart ; 
The  gates  of  heaven  fly  wide  apart. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  white  ; 
I  can  abide  no  longer  to-night." 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  wail, 
They  gave  the  children  bread  and  ale. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bay, 
They  feared  lest  the  dead  were  on  their  wa^. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bark ; 

I  my  self  was  young! 
They  feared  the  dead  out  there  in  the  dark. 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 


INTERLUDE. 

TOUCHED  by  the  pathos  of  these  rhymes, 
The  Theologian  said:  "  All  praise 
Be  to  the  ballads  of  old  times 
And  to  the  bards  of  simple  ways, 
Who  walked  with  Nature  hand  in  hand, 
Whose  country  was  their  Holy  Land, 
Whose  singing  robes  were  homespun  brown, 
From  looms  of  their  own  native  town. 
Which  they  were  not  ashamed  to  wear, 
And  not  of  silk  or  sendal  gay, 
Nor  decked  with  fanciful  array 
Of  cockle-shells  from  Outre-Mer." 

To  whom  the  Student  answered  :  "  Yes  ; 

All  praise  and  honor  !   I  confess 

That  bread  and  ale,  home-baked,  home-brewed, 

Are  wholesome  and  nutritious  food, 

But  not  enough  for  all  our  needs  ; 

Poets — the  best  of  them — are  birds 

Of  passage  ;  where  their  instinct  leads 

They  range  abroad  for  thoughts  and  words, 

And  from  all  climes  bring  home  the  seeds 

That  germinate  in  flowers  or  weeds. 

They  are  not  fowls  in  barnyards  born 

To  cackle  o'er  a  grain  of  corn  ; 


And,  if  you  shut  the  horizon  down 
To  the  small  limits  of  their  town, 
What  do  you  but  degrade  your  bard 
Till  he  at  last  becomes  as  one 
Who  thinks  the  all-encircling  sun 
Rises  and  sets  in  his  back  yard  ?  " 

The  Theologian  said  again  : 
"  It  may  be  so  ;  yet  I  maintain 
That  what  is  native  still  is  best, 
And  little  care  I  for  the  rest. 
'T  is  a  long  story  ;  time  would  fail 
To  tell  it,  and  the  hour  is  late  ; 
We  will  not  waste  it  in  debate, 
But  listen  to  our  Landlord's  tale." 

And  thus  the  sword  of  Damocles 
Descending  not  by  slow  degrees, 
But  suddenly,  on  the  Landlord  fell, 
Who  blushing,  and  with  much  demur 
And  many  vain  apologies, 
Plucking  up  heart,  began  to  tell 
The  Rhyme  of  one  Sir  Christopher. 


THE  LANDLORD'S  TALE. 

TUB   RHYME   OF   SIR   CHRISTOPHER. 

IT  was  Sir  Christopher  Gardiner, 
Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
From  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 
Who  stepped  upon  this  continent 
As  if  his  august  presence  lent 
A  glory  to  the  colony. 

You  should  have  seen  him  in  the  street 
Of  the  little  Boston  of  Winthrop's  time, 
His  rapier  dangling  at  his  feet, 
Doublet  and  hose  and  boots  complete, 
Prince  Rupert  hat  with  ostrich  plume, 
Gloves  that  exhaled  a  faint  perfume, 
Luxuriant  curls  and  air  sublime. 
And  superior  manners  now  obsolete  ! 

He  had  a  way  of  saying  things 

That  made  one  think  of  courts  and  kings, 

And  lords  and  ladies  of  high  degree  ; 

So  that  not  having  been  at  court 

Seemed  something  very  little  short 

Of  treason  or  lese-majesty. 

Such  an  accomplished  knight  was  he. 

His  dwelling  was  just  beyond  the  town, 
At  what  he  called  his  country-seat ; 
For,  careless  of  Fortune's  smile  or  frown, 
And  weary  grown  of  the  world  and  its  wavt 
He  wished  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days 
In  a  private  life  and  a  calm  retreat. 

But  a  double  life  was  the  life  he  led, 
And,  while  professing  to  be  in  search 
Of  a  godly  course,  and  willing,  he  said, 
N#y,  anxious  to  join  the  Puritan  church, 
He  made  of  all  this  but  small  account, 
And  passed  his  idle  hours  instead 
With  roystering  Morton  of  Merry  Mount, 
That  pettifogger  from  Furnival's  Inn, 
Lord  of  misrule  and  riot  and  sin, 
Who  looked  on  the  wine  when  it  was  red. 

This  country-seat  was  little  more 

Than  a  cabin  of  logs  ;  but  in  front  of  the  door 

A  modest  flower-bed  thickly  sown 

With  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine 

Made  those  who  saw  it  at  once  divine 

The  touch  of  some  other  hand  than  his  own. 

And    first  it   was   whispered,    and  then  it  was 

known, 
That  he  in  secret  was  harboring  there 


234 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


A  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 

Whom  he  called  his  cousin,  but  whom  he  had  wed 

In  the  Italian  manner,  as  men  said, 

And  great  was  the  scandal  everywhere. 

But  worse  than  this  was  the  vague  surmise, 

Though  none  could  vouch  for  it  or  aver, 

That  the  Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

Was  only  a  Papist  in  disguise  ; 

And  the  more  to  imbitter  their  bitter  lives, 

And  the  more  to  trouble  the  public  mind, 

Came  letters  from  England,  from  two  other  wives, 

Whom  he  had  carelessly  left  behind  ; 

Both  of  them  letters  of  such  a  kind 

As  made  the  governor  hold  his  breath  ; 

The  one  imploring  him  straight  to  send 

The  husband  home,  that  he  might  amend  ; 

The  other  asking  his  instant  death, 

As  the  only  way  to  make  an  end. 

The  wary  governor  deemed  it  right, 

When  all  this  wickedness  was  revealed, 

To  send  his  warrant  signed  and  sealed, 

And  take  the  body  of  the  knight 

Armed  with  this  mighty  instrument, 

The  marshal,  mounting  his  gallant  steed, 

Bode  forth  from  town  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 

And  followed  by  all  his  bailiffs  bold, 

As  if  on  high  achievement  bent, 

To  storm  some  castle  or  stronghold, 

Challenge  the  warders  on  the  wall, 

And  seize  in  his  ancestral  hall 

A  robber-baron  grim  and  old. 

But  when  through  all  the  dust  and  heat 

He  came  to  Sir  Christopher's  country-seat, 

No  knight  he  found,  no  warder  there, 

But  the  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 

Who  was  gathering  in  the  bright  sunshine, 

The  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine ; 

While  gallant  Sir  Christopher,  all  so  gay, 

Being  forewarned,  through  the  postern  gate 

Of  his  castle  wall  had  tripped  away, 

And  was  keeping  a  little  holiday 

In  the  forests,  that  bounded  his  estate. 

s 

Then  as  a  trusty  squire  and  true 
The  marshal  searched  the  castle  through, 
Not  crediting  what  the  lady  said ; 
Searched  from  cellar  to  garret  in  vain, 
And,  finding  no  knight,  came  out  again 
And  arrested  the  golden  damsel  instead, 
And  bore  her  in  triumph  into  the  town, 
While  from  her  eyes  the  tears  rolled  down 
On  the  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine, 
That  she  held  in  her  fingers  white  and  fine. 

The  governor's  heart  was  moved  to  see 

So  fair  a  creature  caught  within 

The  snares  of  Satan  and  of  sin, 

And  read  her  a  little  homily 

On  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  the  lives 

Of  women,  half  cousins  and  half  wives  ; 

But,  seeing  that  naught  his  words  availed, 

He  sent  her  away  in  a  ship  that  sailed 

For  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 

To  the  other  two  wives  in  the  old  countree, 

To  search  her  further,  since  he  had  failed 

To  come  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  wandered  away 
Through  pathless  woods  for  a  month  and  a  day, 
Shooting  pigeons,  and  sleeping  at  night 
With  the  noble  savage,  who  took  delight 
In  his  feathered  hat  and  his  velvet  vest, 
His  gun  and  his  rapier  and  the  rest. 
But  as  soon  as  the  noble  savage  heard 
That  a  bounty  was  offered  for  this  gay  bird, 
He  wanted  to  slay  him  out  of  hand, 
And  bring  in  his  beautiful  scalp  for  a  show, 
Like  the  glossy  head  of  a  kite  or  crow, 
Until  he  was  made  to  understand 


They  wanted  the  bird  alive,  not  dead  ; 
Then  he  followed  him  whithersoever  he  fled, 
Through  forest  and  field,  and  hunted  him  down, 
And  brought  him  prisoner  into  the  town. 

Alas  !  it  was  a  rueful  sight, 

To  see  this  melancholy  knight 

In  such  a  dismal  and  hapless  case ; 

His  hat  deformed  by  stain  and  dent, 

His  plumage  broken,  his  doublet  rent, 

His  beard  and  flowing  locks  forlorn, 

Matted,  dishevelled,  and  unshorn, 

His  boots  with  dust  and  mire  besprent ; 

But  dignified  in  his  disgrace, 

And  wearing  an  unblushing  face. 

And  thus  before  the  magistrate 

He  stood  to  hear  the  doom  of  fate. 

In  vain  he  strove  with  wonted  ease 

To  modify  and  extenuate 

His  evil  deeds  in  church  and  state, 

For  gone  was  now  his  power  to  please ; 

And  his  pompous  words  had  no  more  weight 

Than  feathers  flying  in  the  breeze. 

With  suavity  equal  to  his  own 

The  governor  lent  a  patient  ear 

To  the  speech  evasive  and  highflown, 

In  which  he  endeavored  to  make  clear 

That  colonial  laws  were  too  severe 

When  applied  to  a  gallant  cavalier, 

A  gentleman  born,  and  so  well  known, 

And  accustomed  to  move  in  a  higher  sphere. 

All  this  the  Puritan  governor  heard, 
And  deigned  in  answer  never  a  word  ; 
But  in  summary  manner  shipped  away, 
In  a  vessel  that  sailed  from  Salem  bay, 
This  splendid  and  famous  cavalier, 
With  his  Rupert  hat  and  his  popery 
To  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 
As  being  unmeet  to  inhabit  here. 

Thus  endeth  the  Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher, 
Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
The  first  who  furnished  this  barren  land 
With  apples  of  Sodom  and  ropes  of  sand. 


FINALE. 

THESE  are  the  tales  those  merry  guests 
Told  to  each  other,  well  or  ill ; 
Like  summer  birds  that  lift  their  crests 
Above  the  borders  of  their  nests 
And  twitter,  and  again  are  still. 

These  are  the  tales,  or  new  or  old, 

In  idle  moments  idly  told ; 

Flowers  of  the  field  with  petals  thin, 

Lilies  that,  neither  toil  nor  spin, 

And  tufts  of  wayside  weeds  and  gorse 

Hung  in  the  parlor  of  the  inn 

Beneath  the  sign  of  the  Red  Horse. 

And  still  reluctant  to  retire, 

The  friends  sat  talking  by  the  fire 

And  watched  the  smouldering  embers  burn, 

To  ashes,  and  flash  up  again 

Into  a  momentary  glow, 

Lingering  like  them  when  forced  to  go, 

And  going  when  they  would  remain  ; 

For  on  the  morrow  they  must  turn 

Their  faces  homeward,  and  the  pain 

Of  parting  touched  with  its  unrest 

A  tender  nerve  in  every  breast. 

But  sleep  at  last  the  victory  won ; 
They  must  be  stirring  with  the  sun, 
And  drowsily  good  night  they  said, 
And  went  still  gossiping  to  bed, 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 


23o 


And  left  the  parlor  wrapped  in  gloom. 
The  only  live  thing  in  the  room 
Was  the  old  clock,  that  in  its  pace 
Kept  time  with  the  revolving  spheres 
And  constellations  in  their  flight, 
And  struck  with  its  uplifted  mace 
The  dark,  unconscious  hours  of  night, 
To  senseless  and  uiilistening  ears. 

Uprose  the  sun  ;  and  every  guest, 
Uprisen,  was  soon  equipped  and  dressed 
For  journeying  home  and  city-ward; 
The  old  stage-coach  was  at  the  door, 
With  horses  harnessed  long  before 
The  sunshine  reached  the  withered  sward 
Beneath  the  oaks,  whose  branches  hoar 
Murmured:   "Farewell  forevermore." 

"Farewell  !"  the  portly  landlord  cried  ; 
"Farewell !"  the  parting  guests  replied, 


But  little  thought  that  nevermore 

Their  feet  would  pass  that  threshold  o'er  ; 

That  nevermore  together  there 

Would  they  assemble,  free  from  care, 

To  hear  the  oaks'  mysterious  roar, 

And  breathe  the  wholesome  country  air. 

Where  are  they  now  V  What  lands  and  skies 
Paint  pictures  in  their  friendly  eyes  y 
What  hope  deludes,  what  promise  cheers. 
What  pleasant  voices  till  their  ears  ''. 
Two  are  beyond  the  salt  sea  waves, 
And  three  already  in  their  graves. 
Perchance  the  living  still  may  look 
Into  the  pages  of  this  book, 
And  see  the  days  of  long  ago 
Floating  and  fleeting  to  and  fro, 
As  in  the  well-remembered  brook 
They  saw  the  inverted  landscape  gleam, 
And  their  own  faces  like  a  dream 
Look  up  upon  them  from  below. 


FLOWEK-DE-LUCE. 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 


BEAUTIFUL  lily,  dwelling  by  still  rivers, 

Or  solitary  mere, 
Or  where  the  sluggish  meadow-brook  delivers 

Its  waters  to  the  weir  ! 

Thou  laughest  at  the  mill,  the  whir  and  worry 

Of  spindle  and  of  loom, 
And  the  great  wheel  that  toils  amid  the  hurry 

And  rushing  of  the  flume. 


Born  in  the  purple,  born  to  joy  and  pleasance, 

Thou  dost  not  toil  nor  spin, 
But  makest  glad  and  radiant  with  thy  presence 

The  meadow  and  the  lin. 

The  wind  blows,  and  uplifts  thy  drooping  banner, 

And  round  thee  throng  and  run 
The  rushes,  the  green  yeomen  of  thy  manor, 

The  outlaws  of  the  sun. 


236 


PALINGENESIS.— THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD. 


The  burnished  dragon-fly  is  thine  attendant, 

And  tilts  against  the  field, 
And  down  the  listed  sunbeam  rides  resplendent 

With  steel-blue  mail  and  shield. 

Thou  art  the  Iris,  fair  among  the  fairest, 

Who,  armed  with  golden  rod 
And  winged  with  the  celestial  azure,  bearest 

The  message  of  some  God. 

Thou  art  the  Muse,  who  far  from  crowded  cities 

Hauntest  the  sylvan  streams, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  reed  the  artless  ditties 

That  come  to  us  as  dreams. 

O  flower-de-luce,  bloom  on,  and  let  the  river 

Linger  to  kiss  thy  feet ! 
O  flower  of  song,  bloom  on,  and  make  forever 

The  world  more  fair  and  sweet. 


PALINGENESIS. 

I  LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 

In  caverns  under  me, 
And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and  fled  and 

glistened, 
Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 

Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started  ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  I  had  known  in  days  departed 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  c     1  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before ; 
And  the  wild-roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 

And  cunning  alchemists 

Could  re-create  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 

Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah  me  !  what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 

"O,    give   me   back,"  I  cried,    "the   vanished 

splendors, 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  o'er  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep  !  " 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas  !  thy  youth  is  dead  ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation  ; 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold  !  " 

Then  said  I,  "From  its  consecrated  ceremer.ts 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain  ; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments 
Go  on  my  way,  like  one  who  looks  before, 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 


Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 

Of  sunsets  burning  low , 

Beneath  what  midnight   skies,    whose    constel 
lations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 

This  world  and  the  unseen  ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine  ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses. 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 

I  do  not  know  ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed, 

Until  "  The  End  "  I  read. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD. 

BURN,  O  evening  hearth,  and  waken 

Pleasant  visions,  as  of  old  ! 
Though  the  house  by  winds  be  shaken, 

Safe  I  keep  this  room  of  gold  ! 

Ah,  no  longer  wizard  Fancy 
Builds  her  castles  in  the  air, 

Luring  me  by  necromancy 
Up  the  never-ending  stair  ! 

But,  instead,  she  builds  me  bridges 

Over  many  a  dark  ravine, 
Where  beneath  the  gusty  ridges 

Cataracts  dash  and  roar  unseen. 

And  I  cross  them,  little  heeding 
Blast  of  wind  or  torrent's  roar, 

As  I  follow  the  receding 
Footsteps  that  have  gone  before. 

Naught  avails  the  imploring  gesture, 
Naught  avails  the  cry  of  pain  ! 

When  1  touch  the  flying  vesture, 
'T  is  the  gray  robe  of  the  rain. 

Baffled  I  return,  and,  leaning 

O'er  the  parapets  of  cloud, 
Watch  the  mist  that  intervening 

Wraps  the  valley  in  its  shroud. 

And  the  sounds  of  life  ascending 
Faintly,  vaguely,  meet  the  ear. 

Murmur  of  bells  and  voices  blending 
With  the  rush  of  waters  near. 

Well  I  know  what  there  lies  hidden, 
Every  tower  and  town  and  farm, 

And  again  the  land  forbidden 
Reassumes  its  vanished  charm. 

Well  I  know  the  secret  places, 
And  the  nests  in  hedge  and  tree ; 

At  what  doors  are  friendly  faces, 
In  what  hearts  are  thoughts  of  me. 

Through  the  mist  and  darkness  sinking. 

Blown  by  wind  and   beaten  by  shower, 
Down  I  fling  the  thought  I  'm  thinking, 

Down  I  toss  this  Alpine  flower. 


HAWTHORNE.— THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY. 


237 


HAWTHORNE. 

MAY  23,  18G4. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  rilled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines  ; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah  !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  '1 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain  ! 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 

I  HEAKD  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 
The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men  ! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  heAth-stones  of  a  continent, 


And  made  forlorn 
The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head  ; 
"  There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said  ; 

"  For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  !  " 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep  : 
' '  God  is  not  dead  :   nor  doth  he  sleep  ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  !  " 


THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY. 

SEE,  the  fire  is  sinking  low, 
Dusky  red  the  embers  glow, 

While  above  them  still  I  cower, 
While  a  moment  more  I  linger, 
Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  finger, 

Points  beyond  the  midnight  hour. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a  time 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 

From  a  school-boy  at  his  play, 
When  they  both  were  young  together, 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 

Making  all  their  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark  ! 
How  above  there  in  the  dark, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 
Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander, 
Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow  ! 


very  quivering  tongue  of  flame 
eems  to  murmur  some  great  name, 
Seems  to  say  to  me,   "  Aspire  !  " 
ut  the  niht-wind  answers    "  Holl 


Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days, 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 
Loud  through  whose  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages, 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart. 

And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting  and  exclaim  : 

"These  are  prophets,  bards,  and  seers. 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations, 
Like  ascendant  constellations, 

They  control  the  coming  years." 

But  the  night-wind  cries  :   "  Despair  ! 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks  ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

"  Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought  ; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought  ; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 

Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread." 

Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down  ; 
Sink  the  rumors  of  renown  ; 


238 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN.— DIVINA  COMMEDIA. 


And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer, — 
"  'T  is  the  brand  of  Meleager 

Dying  on  the  hearth-stone  here !  " 

And  I  answer,  —  "Though  it  be, 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain  ; 
Its  reward  is  in  the  doing. 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain. ' 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN. 

HEARD  AT  NAHANT. 

O  CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun  !  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 
O  requiem  of  the  dying  day  !    O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud-cathedral 

wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to   float,    O  Bells   of 

Lynn  ! 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson 

twilight, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,    O  Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,   far  out  beyond  the 

headland, 
Listens,   and  leisurely  rows  ashore,   O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 

Over  the  shining    sands   the    wandering  cattle 

homeward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his  flam 
ing  signal 

Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumul 
tuous  surges, 

And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  in 
cantations, 

Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells  of 
Lynn  ! 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman 

of  Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 


KILLED  AT  THE  FORD. 

HE  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 

The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 

He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 

Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 

Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 

The  cheer  of  whose  laugh,  and  whose  pleasant 

word, 
Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along, 

Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 

To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford, 

Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 

He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old  song  : 

' '  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap, 

And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his  sword." 


Sudden  and  swift  a  whistling  ball 
Came  out  of  a  wood,  and  the  voice  was  still ; 
Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill  ; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead ; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said. 

We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 

And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and  the  rain 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 

And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed ; 

And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's  lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 

And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red  ! 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 

That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 

Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 

Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 

Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 

Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry  ; 

And  a  bell  was  tolled,  in  that  far-off  town, 

For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to  crown, 

And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she  should  die. 


GIOTTO'S  TOWER. 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete  ! 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone, — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire, — 

The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 


TO-MORROW. 

'T  is  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of  sleep 
My  little  lambs  are  folded  like  the  flocks ; 
From  room  to  room  I  hear  the  wakeful  clocks 
Challenge  the  passing  hour,  like  guards  that 
keep 

Their  solitary  watch  on  tower  and  steep ; 
Far  off  I  hear  the  crowing  of  the  cocks, 
And  through  the  opening  door  that  time  unlocks 
Feel  the  fresh  breathing  of  To-morrow  creep 

To-morrow  !  the  mysterious,  unknown  guest, 
Who  cries  to  me  :  "  Remember  Barmecide, 
And  tremble  to  be  happy  with  the  rest. " 

And  I  make  answer :   u  I  am  satisfied  ; 
I  dare  not  ask  ;  I  know  not  what  is  best ; 
God  hath  already  said  what  shall  betide." 


DIVINA  COMMEDIA. 
I. 

OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  flhe  floor 


NOEL. 


239 


Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er ; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  ^indistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 


II. 

How   strange  the   sculptures  that  adorn    these 

towers  ! 

This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 
Birds   build  their  nests  ;  while  canopied  with 

leaves 

Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers  ! 
But  tiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 
Watch   the  dead    Christ    between   the    living 

thieves, 

And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers  ! 
Ah  !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What  tenderness,    what   tears,    what   hate    of 

wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and^air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song  ! 


III. 

I  ENTER,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine  ! 
And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with 

thine. 
The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  perfume  ; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 
For  thee  to  pass  ;  the  votive  tapers  shine  ; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of  pine 
The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below ; 

And  then  a  voice  celestial,  that  begins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  "  Although  your  sins 
As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "as  the  snow." 


IV. 


WITH -snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of  flame, 
She  stands  before  thee,  who  so  long  ago 
Filler!  thy  young  heart  with  passion  and  the  woe  j 
From  which  thy  song  and  all  its  splendors  came ;  j 

And  while  with  stern  rebuke  she  speaks  thy  name, 
The  ice  about  thy  heart  melts  as  the  snow 
On  mountain  heights,  and  in  swift  overflow 
Comes  gushing  from  thy  lips  in  sobs  of  shame. 

Thou  makest  full  confession  ;  and  a  gleam. 
As  if  the  dawn  on  some  dark  forest  cast, 
Seems  on  thy  lifted  forehead  to  increase  ; 

Lethe  and  Eunoe — the  remembered  dream 
And  the  forgotten  sorrow — bring  at  last 
That  perfect  pardon  which  is  perfect  peace. 


V. 


I  LIFT  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 
With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 
Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 
And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  displays 

Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roundelays, 
With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied  ; 
And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 


No  more  rebukes,    but  smiles  her   words   of 

praise. 

And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen  choirs 
Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and  love, 
And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 
O'er  all   the  house-tops  and  through  heaven 

above 
Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host  ! 


VI. 


O  STAR  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 

O  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor  shines 
Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be  ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy  ! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the  heights, 
Through  all  the  nations,  and  a  sound  is  heard, 
As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 

Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 
In  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous  word, 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 


f    NO£L. 

ENYOYE  A  M.   AGASSIZ,  LA  VEILLE   DE   NOEL  1864, 
AVEC  UN  PANIER  DE  VIMS  DIVERS. 

L'Acad^mie  en  respect, 
Nonobstant  I'incorrection 
A  la  fiivenr  du  sujet. 

Ture-lure, 

N'y  fera  point  de  rature  ; 
Noel !  ture-lure-lure. 

GUI    BAROZAI. 

QUAND  les  astres  de  Noel 
Brillaient,  palpitaient  au  ciel, 
Six  gaillards,  et  chacun  ivre, 
Chantaient  gaiment  dans  le  givre, 

"Bons  amis, 
Aliens  done  chez  Agassiz  !" 

Ces  illustres  Pclerins 
D'Outre-Mer  adroits  et  fins, 
Se  donnant  des  airs  de  pretre, 
A  1'envi  se  vantaient  d'etre 

u  Bons  amis 
De  Jean  Rudolphe  Agassiz  !" 

CEil-de-Perdrix,  grand  farceur, 
Sans  reproche  et  sans  pudeur, 
Dans  son  patois  de  Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait  comme  un  ivrogne, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  dansu  chez  Agassiz  !" 

Verzenay  le  Champenois, 
Bon  Fran^ais,  point  Xew-Yorquoia, 
Mais  des  environs  d'Avize, 
Fredonne  a  mainte  reprise, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  chante  chez  Agassiz  !" 

A  cote  marchait  un  vieux 
Hidalgo,  mais  non  mousseux  ; 
Dans  le  temps  de  Charlemagne 
Fut  son  pore  Grand  d'Espagne  ! 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  dine-  chez  Agassiz  !" 


240 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


Derriere  eux  un  Bordelais, 
Gascon,  s'il  en  fut  jamais, 
Parfume  de  poesie 
Riait,  chantait,  plein  de  vie, 

''Bons  amis, 
J'ai  soupe  chez  Agassiz  !" 

Avec  ce  beau  cadet  roux, 
Bras  dessus  et  bras  dessous, 
Mine  altiere  et  couleur  terne, 
Vint  le  Sire  de  Sau terne  ; 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  couche  chez  Agassiz  !" 

Mais  le  dernier  de  ces  preux, 
Etait  un  pauvre  Chartreux, 
Qui  disait.  d'un  ton  robuste, 
"Benedictions  sur  le  Juste  ! 

Bons  amis, 
Benissons  Pere  Agassiz  !  " 


Us  arrivent  trois  a  trois, 
Montent  1'escalier  de  bois 
Clopin-clopant !  quel  gendarme 
Peut  permettre  ce  vacarme, 

Bons  amis, 
A  la  porte  d' Agassiz  ! 

"  Ouvrez  done,  mon  bon  Seigneur, 
Ouvrez  vite  et  n'ayez  peur  ; 
Ouvrez,  ouvrez,  car  nous  sommes 
Gens  de  bien  et  gentilshommes, 

Bons  amis 
De  la  famille  Agassiz  !" 

Chut,  ganaches  !  taisez-vous  ! 
C'en  est  trop  de  vos  glouglous ; 
Epargnez  aux  Philosophes 
Vos  abominables  strophes ! 

Bons  amis, 
Respectez  mon  Agassiz. 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


ACT  I. 

The  Citadel  of  Antiochus  at  Jerusalem. 
SCENE  I. — ANTIOCHUS  ;  JASON. 

Antiochus.  O  Antioch,  my  Antioch,  my  city  ! 
Queen  of  the  East !  my  solace,  my  delight ! 
The  dowry  of  my  sister  Cleopatra 
When  she  was  wed  to  Ptolemy,  and  now 
Won  back  and  made  more  wonderful  by  me ! 
I  love  thee,  and  I  long  to  be  once  more 
Among  the  players  and  the  dancing  women 
Within  thy  gates,  and  bathe  in  the  Orontes, 
Thy  river  and  mine.     O  Jason,  my  High-Priest, 
For  I  have  made  thee  so,  and  thou  art  mine, 
Hast  thou  seen  Antioch  the  Beautiful  ? 

Jason.  Never,  my  Lord. 

Ant.  Then  hast  thou  never  seen  j 

The  wonder  of  the  world.     This  city  of  David 
Compared  with  Antioch  is  but  a  village, 
And  its  inhabitants  compared  with  Greeks 
Are  mannerless  boors. 

Jason.  They  are  barbarians, 

And  mannerless. 

Ant.  They  must  be  civilized. 

They  must  be  made  to  have  more  gods  than  one  ;  • 
And  goddesses  besides. 

Jason.  They  shall  have  more. 

Ant.  They  must  have  hippodromes,  and  games, 

and  baths, 

Stage-plays  and  festivals,  and  most  of  all 
The  Dionysia. 

Jason.          They  shall  have  them  all. 

Ant.          By  Heracles  !  but  I  should  like  to  see  ! 
These  Hebrews  crowned  with  ivy,  and  arrayed 
In  skins  of  fawns,  with   drums   and  flutes  and 

thyrsi, 

Revel  and  riot  through  the  solemn  streets 
Of  their  old  towns.     Ha,  ha  !     It  makes  me  merry  i 
Only  to  think  of  it ! — Thou  dost  not  laugh. 

Jason.  Yea,  I  laugh  inwardly. 

Ant.  The  new  Greek  leaven 

Works  slowly  in  this  Israelitish  dough  ! 
Have  I  not  sacked  the  Temple,  and  on  the  altar    j 
Set  up  the  statue  of  Olympian  Zeus 
To  Hellenize  it  ? 

Jason.  •  Thou  hast  done  all  this. 

Ant.    As  thou  wast  Joshua  once  and  now  art 

Jason, 
And  from  a  Hebrew  hast  become  a  Greek, 


So  shall  this  Hebrew  nation  be  translated, 
Their  very  natures  and  their  names  be  changed, 
And  all  be  Hellenized. 

Jason.  It  shall  be  done. 

Ant.  Their  manners  and  their  laws  and  way  of 

living 
Shall   all   be  Greek.     They  shall    unlearn  their 

language, 

And  learn  the  lovely  speech  of  Antioch. 
Where  hast  thou  been  to-day  V  Thou  comest  late. 

Jason.      Playing    at    discus    with    the    other 

priests 
In  the  Gymnasium. 

Ant.  Thou  hast  done  well. 

There 's  nothing  better  for  you  lazy  priests 
Than  discus-playing  with  the  common  people. 
Now  tell  me,  Jason,  what  these  Hebrews  call  me 
When  they  converse  together  at  their  games. 

Jason.     Antiochus  Epiphanes,  my  Lord  ; 
Antiochus  the  Illustrious. 

Ant.  O,  not  that ; 

That  is  the  public  cry ;   I  mean  the  name 
They  give  me  when  they  talk  among  themselves, 
And  think  that  no  one  listens  ;  what  is  that  ? 

Jason.     Antiochus  Epimanes,  my  -Lord ! 

Ant.     Antiochus  the  Mad  !     Ay,  that  is  it. 
And  who  hath  said  it  ?    Who  has  set  in  motion 
That  sorry  jest  ? 

Jason.  The  Seven  Sons  insane 

Of  a  weird  woman,  like  themselves  insane. 

Ant.     I  like  their  courage,  but  it  shall  not  save 

them. 

They  shall  be  made  to  eat  the  flesh  of  swine, 
Or  they  shall  die.     Where  are  they  "i 

Jason.  In  the  dungeons 

Beneath  this  tower. 

Ant.  There  let  them  stay  and  etarve, 

Till  I  am  ready  to  make  Greeks  of  them, 
After  my  fashion. 

Jason.  They  shall  stay  and  starve. — 

My  Lord,  the  Ambassadors  of  Samaria 
Await  thy  pleasure. 

Ant.  Why  not  my  displeasure? 

Ambassadors  are  tedious.     They  are  men 
Who  work  for  their  own  ends,  and  not  for  mine  ; 
There  is  no  furtherance  in  them.     Let  them  go 
To  Apollonius,  my  governor 
There  in  Samaria,  and  not  trouble  me. 
What  do  they  want  ? 

Jason.  Only  the  royal  sanction 

To  give  a  name  unto  a  nameless  temple 


JUDAS  MACCABvEUS. 


241 


Upon  Mount  Gerizim. 

Ant.  Then  bid  them  enter. 

This  pleases  me,  and  furthers  my  designs. 
The  occasion  is  auspicious.     Bid  them  enter. 


SCENE  II. — ANTIOCHUS  ;  JASON  ;  the  SAMAKITAN 
AMBASSADORS. 

Ant.     Approach.     Come  forward  ;    stand  not  at 

the  door 

Wagging    your  long  beards,  but   demean  your 
selves 
As  doth  become  Ambassadors.     What  seek  ye  ? 

An  Ambassador.     An  audience  from  the  King. 

Ant.  Speak,  and  be  brief. 

Waste  not  the  time  in  useless  rhetoric. 
Words  are  not  things. 

Ambassador  (reading).      "To  King  Antiochus, 
The  God,  Epiphanes  ;  a  Memorial 
From  the  Sidonians,  who  live  at  Sichem. " 

Ant.     Sidonians  ? 

Ambassador.          Ay,  my  Lord. 

Ant.  Go  on,  go  on  ! 

And  do  not  tire  thyself  and  me  with  bowing  ! 

Ambassador  (reading).     "We  area  colony  of 
Medes  and  Persians. " 

Ant.     No,  ye  are  Jews  from  one  of  the  Ten 

Tribes  ; 

Whether  Sidonians  or  Samaritans 
Or  Jews  of  Jewry,  matters  not  to  me  ; 
Ye  are  all  Israelites,  ye  are  all  Jews. 
When  the  Jews  prosper,  ye  claim  kindred  with 

them  ; 

When  the  Jews  suffer,  ye  are  Medes  and  Persians  : 
I  know  that  in  the  days  of  Alexander 
Ye  claimed  exemption  from  the  annual  tribute 
In  the  Sabbatic  Year,  because,  ye  said, 
Your  fields  had  not  been  planted  in  that  year. 

Ambassador  (reading).     "Our  fathers,  upon 

certain  frequent  plagues, 
And  following  an  ancient  superstition, 
Were  long  accustomed  to  observe  that  day 
Which  by  the  Israelites  is  called  the  Sabbath, 
And  in  a  temple  on  Mount  Gerizim 
Without  a  name,  they  offered  sacrifice. 
Now  we,  who  are  Sidonians,  beseech  thee, 
Who  art  our  benefactor  and  our  savior, 
Not  to  confound  us  with  these  wicked  Jews, 
But  to  give  royal  order  and  injunction 
To  Apollonius  in  Samaria, 
Thy  governor,  and  likewise  to  Nicanor, 
Thy  procurator,  no  more  to  molest  us  ; 
And  let  our  nameless  temple  now  be  named 
The  Temple  of  Jupiter  Hellenius." 

Ant.    This  shall  be  done.    Full  well  it  pleaseth 

me 

Ye  are  not  Jews,  or  are  no  longer  Jews, 
But  Greeks  ;  if  not  by  birth,  yet  Greeks  by  cus 
tom. 

Your  nameless  temple  shall  receive  the  name 
Of  Jupiter  Hellenius.     Ye   may  go  ! 


SCENE  in. — ANTIOCIIUS  ;  JASON. 

Ant.     My  task  is  easier  than  I  dreamed. 
These  people 

Meet  me  half-way.    Jason,  didst  thou  take  note 
How  these  Samaritans  of  Sichem  said 
They  were  not  Jews  V  that  they  were  Medes  and 

Persians, 

They  were  Sidonians,  anything  but  Jews  ? 
'T  is  of  good  augury.  The  rest  will  follow 
Till  the  whole  land  is  Hellenized. 

Jason.  My  Lord, 

These  are  Samaritans.     The  tribe  of  Judah 
Is  of  a  different  temper,  and  the  task 
Will  be  more  difficult. 

Ant.  Dost  thou  gainsay  me  ? 

16 


Jason.     I  know  the   stubborn  nature   of  the 

Jew, 

Yesterday,  Eleazer,  an  old  man, 
Being  fourscore  years    and    ten,    chose     rather 

death 
By  torture  than  to  eat  the  flesh  of  swine. 

Ant.     The  life  is  in  the  blood,  and  the  whole 

nation 

Shall  bleed  to  death,  or  it  shall  change  its  faith  ! 
Jason.     Hundreds    have   fled    already    to   the 

mountains 

Of  Ephraim,  where  Judas  Maccabaeus 
Hath  raised  the  standard  of  revolt  against  thee. 
Ant.     I  will  burn  down  their  city,  and  will 

make  it 

Waste  as  a  wilderness.     Its  thoroughfares 
Shall  be  but  furrows  in  a  field  of  ashes. 
It  shall  be  sown  with  salt  as  Sodom  is  ! 
This  hundred  and  fifty-third  Olympiad 
Shall  have  a  broad  and  blood-red  seal  upon  it, 
Stamped  with  the  awful  letters  of  my  name, 
Antiochus  the  God,  Epiphanes  ! — 
Where  are  those  Seven  Sons  ? 

Jason.  My  Lord,  they  wait 

Thy  royal  pleasure. 
Ant.  They  shall  wait  no  longer ! 


ACT  II. 

Tlte  Dungeons  in  the  Citadel. 

SCENE  I. — THE   MOTHEH   of  the  SEVEN   SONS 
alone,  listening. 

The  Mother.     Be  strong,  my  heart !    Break  not 

till  they  are  dead, 

All,  all  my  Seven  Sons  ;  then  burst  asunder, 
And  let  this  tortured  and  tormented  soul 
Leap  and  rush  out  like  water  through  the  shards 
Of  earthen  vessels  broken  at  a  well. 

0  my  dear  children,  mine  in  life  and  death, 

1  know  not  how  ye  came  into  my  womb  ; 

I  neither  gave  you  breath,  nor  gave  you  life, 
And  neither  was  it  I  that  formed  the  members 
Of  every  one  of  you.     But  the  Creator, 
Who  made   the  world,    and  made   the   heavens 

above  us, 

Who  formed  the  generation  of  mankind, 
And  found  out  the  beginning  of  all  things, 
He  gave  you  breath  and  life,  and  will  again 
Of  his  own  mercy,  as  ye  now  regard 
Not  your  own  selves,  but  his  eternal  law. 
I  do  not  murmur,  nay,  I  thank  thee,  God, 
That  I  and  mine  have  not  been  deemed  unworthy 
To  suffer  for  thy  sake,  and  for  thy  law, 
And  for  the  many  sins  of  Israel. 
Hark  !  I  can  hear  within  the  sound  of  scourges ! 
I  feel  them  more  than  ye  do,  O  my  sons ! 
But  cannot  come  to  you.     I,  who  was  wont 
To  wake  at  night  at  the  least  cry  ye  made, 
To  whom  ye  ran  at  every  slightest  hurt, — 
I  cannot  take  you  now  into  my  lap 
And  sooth  your  pain,  but  God  will  take  you  all 
Into  his  pitying  arms,  and  comfort  you, 
And  give  you  rest. 
A  Voice  (within).     What  wouldst  thou  ask  of 

us? 

Ready  are  we  to  die,  but  we  will  never 
Transgress  the  law  and  customs  of  our  fathers. 
The  Mother.     It  is  the  voice  of  my  first-born  ! 

O  brave  • 

And  noble  boy  !     Thou  hast  the  privilege 
Of  dying  first,  as  thou  wast  born  the  first. 

The  same    Voice  (within).     God  looketh  on  us, 

and  hath  comfort  in  us  ; 
As  Moses  in  his  sons  of  old  declared, 
He  in  his  servants  shall  be  comforted. 


242 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


The  Mother.     I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  fail ! — 

He  speaks  no  more, 
He  is  beyond  all  pain  ! 

Ant.  (within).  If  thou  eat  not 

Thou  shalt  be  tortured  throughout  all  the  mem 
bers 
Of  thy  whole  body.     Wilt  thou  eat  then  ? 

Second  Voice  (within).     No. 

The  Mother.     It  is  Adaiah's  voice.     I  tremble 

for  him. 

I  know  his  nature,  devious  as  the  wind, 
And  swift  to  change,  gentle  and  yielding  always. 
Be  steadfast,  O  my  son  ! 

The  same  Voice  (within).     Thou,  like  a  fury, 
Takest  us  from  this  present  life,  but  God, 
Who  rules  the  world,  shall  raise  us  up  again 
Into  life  everlasting. 

The  Mother.  God,  I  thank  thee 

That  thou  hast  breathed  into  that  timid  heart 
Courage  to  die  for  thee.     O  my  Adaiah, 
Witness  of  God  !  if  thou  for  whom  I  feared 
Canst  thus  encounter  death,  I  need  not  fear ; 
The  others  will  not  shrink. 

Third  Voice  (within).  Behold  these  hands 

Held  out  to  thee,  O  King  Antiochus, 
Not  to  implore  thy  mercy,  but  to  show 
That  I  despise  them.     He  who  gave  them  to  me 
Will  give  them  back  again.  . 

The  Mother.  O  Avilan, 

It  is  thy  voice.     For  the  last  time  I  hear  it ; 
For  the  last  time  on  earth,  but  not  the  last. 
To  death  it  bids  defiance  and  to  torture. 
It  sounds  to  me  as  from  another  world, 
And  makes  the  petty  miseries  of  this 
Seem  unto  me  as  naught,  and  less  than  naught. 
Farewell,  my  Avilan  ;  nay,  I  should  say 
Welcome,  my  Avilan  ;  for  I  am  dead 
Before  thee.     I  am  waiting  for  the  others. 
Why  do  they  linger  ? 

Fourth  Voice  (within).     It  is  good,  O  King, 
Being  put  to  death  by  men,  to  look  for  hope 
From  God,  to  be  raised  up  again  by  him. 
But  thou — no  resurrection  shalt  thou  have 
To  life  hereafter. 

The  Mother.          Four  !  already  four  ! 
Three  are  still  living ;  nay,  they  all  are  living, 
Half  here,  half  there..    Make  haste,  Antiochus, 
To  reunite  us ;  for  the  sword  that  cleaves 
These  miserable  bodies  makes  a  door 
Through  which  our  souls,  impatient  of  release, 
Rush  to  each  other's  arms. 

Fifth  Voice  (within).     Thou  hast  the  power  ; 
Thou  doest  what  thou  wilt.     Abide  awhile, 
And  thou  shalt  see  the  power  of  God,  and  how 
He  will  torment  thee  and  thy  seed. 

The  Mother.  O  hasten  ; 

Why  dost  thou  pause  ?      Thou  who  hast  slain 

already 

So  many  Hebrew  women,  and  hast  hung 
Their  murdered  infants  round  their  necks,  slay 

me, 

For  I  too  am  a  woman,  and  these  boys 
Are  mine*    Make  haste  to  slay  us  all, 
And  hang  my  lifeless  babes  about  my  neck. 

Sixth  Voice  (within).     Think  not,  Antiochus, 

that  takest  in  hand 
To  strive  against  the  God  of  Israel, 
Thou  shalt  escape  unpunished,  for  his  wrath 
Shall  overtake  thee  and  thy  bloody  house. 

The  Mother.     One  more,  my  Sirion,  and  then 

all  is  ended. 

Haying  put  all  to  bed,  then  in  my  turn 
I  will  lie  down  and  sleep  as  sound  as  they. 
My  Sirion,  my  youngest,  best  beloved  ! 
And  those  bright  golden  locks,  that  I  so  oft 
Have  curled  about  these  fingers,  even  now 
Are  foul  with  blood  and  dust,  like  a  lamb's  fleece, 
Slain  in  the  shambles. — Not  a  sound  I  hear. 
This  silence  is  more  terrible  to  me 
Than  any  sound,  than  any  cry  of  pain, 
That  might  escape  the  lips  of  one  who  dies. 


Doth  his  heart  fail  him  ?     Doth  he  fall  away 
In  the  last  hour  from  God  ?     O  Sirion,  Sirion, 
Art  thou  afraid  ?    I  do  not  hear  thy  voice. 
Die  as  thy  brothers  died.     Thou  must  not  live ! 


SCENE  II.—  THE  MOTHER  ;  ANTIOCHUS  ;  SIRION 

The  Mother.     Are  they  all  dead  ? 

Ant.  Of  all  thy  Seven  Sons 

One  only  lives.     Behold  them  where  they  lie  ; 
How  dost  thou  like  this  picture  ? 

The  Mother.  God  in  heaven  ! 

Can  a  man  do  such  deeds,  and  yet  not  die 
By  the  recoil  of  his  own  wickedness  ? 
Ye  murdered,  bleeding,  mutilated  bodies 
That  were  my  children  once,  and  still  are  mine, 
I  cannot  watch  o'er  you  as  Rispah  watched 
In  sackcloth  o'er  the  seven  sons  of  Saul, 
Till  water  drop  upon  you  out  of  heaven 
And  wash  this  blood  away  !     I  cannot  mourn 
As  she,  the  daughter  of  Aiah  mourned  the  dead, 
From  the  beginning  of  the  barley-harvest 
Until  the  autumn  rains,  and  suffered  not 
The  birds  of  air  to  rest  on  them  by  day. 
Nor  the  wild  beasts  by  night.     For  ye  have  died 
A  better  death,  a  death  so  full  of  life 
That  I  ought  rather  to  rejoice  than  mourn. — 
Wherefore  art  thou.  not  dead,  O  Sirion  ? 
Wherefore  art  thou  the  only  living  thing 
Among  thy  brothers  dead  ?    Art  thou  afraid  ? 

Ant.     O  woman,  I   have  spared  him  for  thy 

sake, 

For  he  is  fair  to  look  upon  and  comely  ; 
And  I  have  sworn  to  him  by  all  the  gods 
That  I  would  crown  his  life  with  joy  and  honor. 
Heap  treasures  on  him,  luxuries,  delights, 
Make  him  my  friend  and  keeper  of  my  secrets, 
If  he  would  turn  from  your  Mosaic  Law 
And  be  as  we  are ;  but  he  will  not  listen, 

The  Mother.     My  noble  Sirion  ! 

Ant.  Therefore  I  beseech  thee, 

Who  art  his  mother,  thou  wouldst  speak  with 

him 
And  wouldst  persuade  him.     I  am  sick  of  blood. 

The  Mother.     Yea,  I  will  speak  with  him  and 

will  persuade  him 

O  Sirion,  my  son !  have  pity  on  me, 
On  me  that  bare  thee,  and  that  gave  thee  suck, 
And  fed  and  nourished  thee,  and  brought  thee 

up 

With  the  dear  trouble  of  a  mother's  care 
Unto  this  age.     Look  on  the  heavens  above  thee, 
And  on  the  earth  and  all  that  is  therein ; 
Consider  that  God  made  them  out  of  things 
That  were  not ;  and  that  likewise  in  this  manner 
Mankind  was  made.     Then  fear  not  this  tormen 
tor; 

But,  being  worthy  of  thy  brethren,  take 
Thy  death  as  they  did,  that  I  may  receive  thee 
Again  in  mercy  with  them. 

Ant.  I  am  mocked, 

Yea,  I  am  laughed  to  scorn. 

Sirion.  Whom  wait  ye  for  ? 

Never  will  I  obey  the  King's  commandment, 
But  the  commandment  of  the  ancient  Law, 
That  was  by  Moses  given  unto  our  fathers. 
And  thou,  O  godless  man,  that  of  all  others 
Art  the  most  wicked,  be  not  lifted  up, 
Nor  puffed  up  with  uncertain  hopes,  uplifting 
Thy  hand  against  the  servants  of  the  Lord, 
For  thou  hast  not  escaped  the  righteous  judgment 
Of  the  Almighty  God,  who  seeth  all  things  ! 

Ant.     He  is  no  God  of  mine  ;  I  fear  him  not. 

Sirion.     My  brothers,   who    have    suffered  a 

brief  pain, 

Are  dead ;  but  thou,  Antiochus,  shalt  suffer 
The  punishment  of  pride.     I  offer  up 
My  body  and  my  life,  beseeching  God 
That  he  would  speedily  be  merciful 
Unto  our  nation,  and  that  thou  by  plagues 


JUDAS  MACCABJEUS. 


243 


Mysterious  and  by  torments  mayest  confess 
That  he  alone  is  God. 

Ant.  Ye  both  shall  perish 

By  torments  worse  than  any  that  your  God, 
Here  or  hereafter,  hath  in  store  for  me. 

The  Mother.     My  Sirion,  I  am  proud  of  thee  ! 

Ant.  Be  silent ! 

Go  to  thy  bed  of  torture  in  yon  chamber, 
Where  lie  so  many  sleepers,  heartless  mother  ! 
Thy  footsteps  will  not  wake  them,  nor  thy  voice, 
Nor  wilt  thou  hear,  amid  thy  troubled  dreams, 
Thy  children  crying  for  thee  in  the  night ! 

The  Mother.     O   Death,    that   stretchest  thy 

white  hands  to  me, 

I  fear  them  not,  but  press  them  to  my  lips, 
That  are  as  white  as  thine ;  for  I  am  Death, 
Nay,  am  the  Mother  of  Death,  seeing  these  sons 
All  lying  lifeless. — Kiss  me,  Sirion. 


ACT  III. 

The  Battle-field  of  Beth-horon. 

SCENE  I. — JUDAS  MACCABEUS  in  armor  before 
his  tent. 

Judas.    The  trumpets  sound  ;  the  echoes  of  the 

mountains 

Answer  them,  as  the  Sabbath  morning  breaks 
Over  Beth-horon  and  its  battle-field, 
Where  the  great  captain  of  the  hosts  of  God, 
A  slave  brought  up  in  the  brick-fields  of  Egypt, 
Overcame  the  Amorites.     There  was  no  day 
Like  that,  before  or  after  it,  nor  shall  be. 
The  sun  stood  still ;  the  hammers  of  the  hail 
Beat  on  their  harness  ;  and  the  captains  set 
Their  weary  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
As  I  will  upon  thine,  Antiochus, 
Thou  man  of  blood  ! — Behold  the  rising  sun 
Strikes  on  the  golden  letters  of  my  banner, 
Be  Elohim  Yehovah  !     Who  is  like 
To  thee,  O  Lord,  among  the  gods  '1 — Alas  ! 
I  am  not  Joshua,  I  cannot  say, 
"Sun,  stand  thou  still  on  Gibeon,  and  thou  Moon, 
In  Ajalon  !  "     Nor  am  I  one  who  wastes 
The  fateful  time  in  useless  lamentation  ; 
But  one  who  bears  his  life  upon  his  hand 
To  lose  it  or  to  save  it,  as  may  best 
Serve  the  designs  of  Him  who  giveth  life. 


SCENE  II. — JUDAS  MACCABEUS  ;  JEWISH  FUGI 
TIVES. 

Judas.     Who  and  what  are  ye,  that  with  fur 
tive  steps 
Steal  in  among  our  tents  ? 

Fugitives.  O  Maccabaeus, 

Outcasts  are  we,  and  fugitives  as  thou  art, 
Jews  of  Jerusalem,  that  have  escaped 
From  the  polluted  city,  and  from  death. 

Jttdas.     None   can  escape   from   death.      Say 

that  ye  come 

To  die  for  Israel,  and  ye  are  welcome. 
What  tidings  bring  ye  ? 

Fugitives  Tidings  of  despair. 

The  Temple  is  laid  waste ;  the  precious  vessels, 
Censers  of  gold,  vials  and  veils  and  crowns, 
And  golden  ornaments,  and  hidden  treasures, 
Have  all  been  taken  from  it,  and  the  Gentiles 
With  revelling  and  with  riot  fill  its  courts, 
And  dally  with  harlots  in  the  holy  places. 

Judas.     All  this  I  knew  before. 

Fugitives.  Upon  the  altar 

Are  things  profane,  things  by  the  law  forbidden  ; 
Nor  can  we  keep  our  Sabbaths  or  our  Feasts, 
But  on  the  festivals  of  Dionysus 


Must  walk  in  their  processions,  bearing  ivy 
To  crown  a  drunken  god. 

Judas.  This  too  I  know. 

But  tell  me  of  the  Jews.     How  fare  the  Jews  ? 

Fugitives.     The  coming  of  this  mischief  hath 

been  sore 

And  grievous  to  the  people.     All  the  land 
Is  full  of  lamentation  and  of  mourning. 
The  Princes  and  the  Elders  weep  and  wail  ; 
The  young  men  and  the  maidens  are  made  feeble  ; 
The  beauty  of  the  women  hath  been  changed. 

Judas.     And  are  there  none  to  die  for  Israel  ? 
'T  is. not  enough  to  mourn.     Breastplate  and  har 
ness 

Are  better  things  than  sackcloth.    Let  the  women 
Lament  for  Israel ;  the  men  should  die. 

Fugitives.    Both  men  and  women  die ;  old  men 

•        and  young  ; 
Old  Eleazer  died  :  and  Mahala 
With  all  her  Seven  Sons. 

Judas.  Antiochus, 

At  every  step  thou  takest  there  is  left 
A  bloody  footprint  in  the  street,  by  which 
The  avenging  wrath  of  God  will  track  thee  out ! 
It  is  enough.     Go  to  the  sutler's  tents  : 
Those  of  you  who  are  men,  put  on  such  armor 
As  ye  may  find  ;  those  of  you  who  are  women, 
Buckle  that  armor  on  ;  and  for  a  watch-word 
Whisper,  or  cry  aloud,  "The  Help  of  God." 


SCENE  III— JUDAS  MACCABEUS;  NICANOR. 

Nicanor.     Hail,  Judas  Maccabaeus ! 

Judas.  Hail ! — Who  art  thou 

That  comest  here  in  this  mysterious  guise 
Into  our  camp  unheralded  V 

Nic.  A  herald 

Sent  from  Nicanor. 

Judas.  Heralds  come  not  thus. 

Armed  with  thy  shirt  of  mail  from  head  to  heel, 
Thou  glidest  like  a  serpent  silently 
Into  my  presence.     Wherefore  dost  thou  turn 
Thy  face  from  me  ?     A  herald  speaks  his  errand 
With  forehead  unabashed.     Thou  art  a  spy 
Sent  by  Nicanor. 

Nic.  No  disguise  avails  ! 

Behold  my  face  ;  I  am  Nicanor's  self. 

Judas.     Thou  art  indeed  Nicanor.     I  salute 

thee. 

What  brings  thee  hither  to  this  hostile  camp 
Thus  unattended  ? 

Nic.  Confidence  in  thee. 

Thou  hast  the  nobler  virtues  of  thy  race, 
Without  the  failings  that  attend  those  virtues. 
Thou  canst  be  strong,  and  yet  not  tyrannous, 
Canst  righteous  be  and  not  intolerant. 
Let  there  be  peace  between  us. 

Judas.  What  is  peace  ? 

Is  it  to  bow  in  silence  to  our  victors ? 
Is  it  to  see  our  cities  sacked  and  pillaged. 
Our  people  slain,  or  sold  as  slaves,  or  fieeing 
At  night-time  by  the  blaze  of  burning  towns  ; 
Jerusalem  laid  waste  ;  the  Holy  Temple 
Polluted  with  strange  gods  ?     Are  these  things 
peace  V 

Nic.     These  are  the  dire  necessities  that  wait 
On  war,  whose  loud  and  bloody  enginery 
I  seek  to  stay.     Let  there  be  peace  between 
Antiochus  and  thee. 

Jndas.  Antiochus  ? 

What  is  Antiochus,  that  he  should  prate 
Of  peace  to  me,  who  am  a  fugitive  "i 
To-day  he  shall  be  lifted  up  ;  to-morrow 
Shall  not  be  found,  because  he  is  returned 
Unto  his  dust ;  his  thought  has  come  to  nothing. 
There  is  no  peace  between  us,  nor  can  be, 
Until  this  banner  floats  upon  the  walls 
Of  our  Jerusalem. 

Nic.  Between  that  city 

And  thee  there  lies  a  waving  wall  of  tents, 


244 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


Held  by  a  host  of  forty  thousand  foot, 

And  horsemen  seven  thousand.     What  hast  thou 

To  bring  against  all  these  "i 

Judas.  The  power  of  God, 

Whose    breath    shall  scatter  your    white    tents 

abroad, 
As  flakes  of  snow. 

Nic.  Your  Mighty  One  in  heaven 

Will  not  do  battle  on  the  Seventh  Day  ; 
It  is  his  day  of  rest. 

Judas.     '  Silence,  blasphemer. 

Go  to  thy  tents. 

Nic.  Shall  it  be  war  or  peace  ? 

Judas.     War,  war,  and  only  war.     Go  to  thy 

tents 

That  shall  be  scattered,  as  by  you  were  scattered 
The  torn  and  trampled  pages  of  the  Law, 
Blown  through  the  windy  streets. 

Nic.  Farewell,  brave  foe  ! 

Judas.     Ho,  there,    my  captains !     Have  safe 

conduct  given 

Unto  Nicanor's  herald  through  the  camp, 
And  come  yourselves  to  me. — Farewell,  Nicanor  ! 


SCENE    IV.— JUDAS    MACCABEUS  ;    CAPTAINS 
AND  SOLDIERS. 

Judas.     The  hour  is  come.     Gather  the  host 

together 

For  battle.     Lo,  with  trumpets  and  with  songs 
The  army  of  Nicanor  comes  against  us. 
Go  forth  to  meet  them,  praying  in  your  hearts, 
And  fighting  with  your  hands. 

Captains.  Look  forth  and  see  !  i 

The  morning  sun  is  shining  on  their  shields 
Of  gold  and  brass ;  the  mountains  glisten  with  j 

them, 

And  shine  like  lamps.     And  we  who  are  so  few 
And  poorly  armed,  and  ready  to  faint  with  fasting, 
How  shall  we  fight  against  this  multitude  V 

Judas.     The  victory  of  a  battle  standeth  not 
In  multitudes,  but  in  the  strength  that  cometh 
From  heaven  above.     The  Lord  forbid  that  I 
Should  do  this  thing,  and  flee  away  from  them. 
Nay,  if  our  hour  be  come,  then  let  us  die  ; 
Let  us  not  stain  our  honor. 

Captains.  'T  is  the  Sabbath. 

Wilt  thou  fight  on  the  Sabbath,  Maccabseus  ? 

Judas.     Ay ;  when  I  fight  the  battles  of  the 

Lord, 

I  fight  them  on  his  day,  as  on  all  others. 
Have  ye  forgotten  certain  fugitives 
That  fled  once  to  these  hills,  and  hid  themselves 
In  caves  ?    How  their  pursuers  camped  against 

them 

Upon  the  Seventh  Day,  and  challenged  them  ? 
And  how  they  answered  not,  nor  cast  a  stone, 
Nor  stopped  the  places  where  they  lay  concealed, 
But  meekly  perished  with  their  wives  and  chil 
dren, 

Even  to  the  number  of  a  thousand  souls  ? 
We  who  are  fighting  for  our  laws  and  lives 
Will  not  so  perish. 

Captains.  Lead  us  to  the  battle  ! 

Judas.      And  let   our  watchword   be,    "  The 

Help  of  God  !  " 

Last  night  I  dreamed  a  dream  ;  and  in  my  vision 
Beheld  Onias,  our  High-Priest  of  old, 
Who  holding  up  his  hands  prayed  for  the  Jews. 
This  done,  in  the  like  manner  there  appeared 
An  old  man,  and  exceeding  glorious, 
With  hoary  hair,  and  of  a  wonderful 
And  excellent  majesty.     And  Onias  said  : 
"  This  is  a  lover  of  the  Jews,  who  prayeth 
Much  for  the  people  and  the  Holy  City, — 
God's  prophet  Jeremias."    And  the  prophet 
Held  forth  his  right  hand  and  gave  unto  me 
A  sword  of  gold ;  and  giving  it  he  said  : 
"  Take  thou  this  holy  sword,  a  gift  from  God, 
And  with  it  thou  shalt  wound  thine  adversaries." 


Captains.     The  Lord  is  with  us  ! 

Judas.  Hark  !  I  hear  the  trumpets 

Sound  from  Beth-horon ;  from  the  battle-field 
Of  Joshua,  where  he  smote  the  Amorites, 
Smote  the  Five  Kings  of  Eglon  and  of  Jarmuth, 
Of  Hebron,  Lachish,  and  Jerusalem, 
As  we  to-day  will  smite  Nicanor's  hosts 
And  leave  a  memory  of  great  deeds  behind  us. 

Captains  and  Soldiers.     The  help  of  God  ! 

Judas.  Be  Elohim  Yehovah  ! 

Lord,  thou  didst  send  thine  Angel  in  the  time 
Of  Esekias,  King  of  Israel, 
•And  in  the  armies  of  Sennacherib 
Didst  slay  a  hundred  fourscore  and  five  thousand. 
Wherefore,  O  Lord  of  heaven,  now  also  send 
Before  us  a  good  angel  for  a  fear, 
And  through  the  might  of  thy  right  arm  let  those 
Be  stricken  with  terror  that  have  come  this  day 
Against  thy  holy  people  to  blaspheme  ! 


ACT  IV. 

The  outer  Courts  of  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem. 

SCENE     I. — JUDAS     MACCABEUS  ;     CAPTAINS  ; 
JEWS. 

Judas.     Behold,  our  enemies  are  discomfited. 
Jerusalem  is  fallen  ;  and  our  banners 
Float  from  her  battlements,  and  o'er  her  gates 
Nicanor's  severed  head,  a  sign  of  terror, 
Blackens  in  wind  and  sun. 

Captains.  O  Maccabaeus, 

The  citadel  of  Antiochus,  wherein 
The  Mother  with  her  Seven  Sons  was  murdered, 
IR  still  defiant. 

Judas.  Wait. 

Captains.  Its  hateful  aspect 

Insults  us  with  the  bitter  memories 
Of  other  days. 

Judas.  Wait ;  it  shall  disappear 

And  vanish  as  a  cloud.     First  let  us  cleanse 
The  Sanctuary.     See,  it  is  become 
Waste  like  a  wilderness.     Its  golden  gates 
Wrenched  from  their  hinges  and  consumed  by  fire; 
Shrubs  growing  in  its  courts  as  in  a  forest ; 
Upon  its  altars  hideous  and  strange  idols  ; 
And  strewn  about  its  pavement  at  my  feet 
Its  Sacred  Books,  half  burned  and  painted  o'er 
With  images  of  heathen  gods. 

Jews.  Woe  !    woe  ! 

Our  beauty  and  our  glory  are  laid  waste  ! 
The  Gentiles  have  profaned  our  holy  places ! 

(Lamentation  and  alarm  of  trumpets.) 

Judas.      This   sound  of    trumpets,    and    this 

lamentation, 

The  heart-cry  of  a  people  toward  the  heavens, 
Stir  me  to  wrath  and  vengeance.     Go,  my  cap 
tains  ; 

I  hold  you  back  no  longer.     Batter  down 
The  citadel  of  Antiochus,  while  here 
We  sweep  away  his  altars  and  his  gods. 


SCENE  II. — JUDAS  MACCABAEUS  ;  JASON  ;  JEWS. 

Jews.     Lurking  among  the  ruins  of  the  Temple, 
Deep  in  its  inner  courts,  we  found  this  man, 
Clad  as  High-Priest. 

Judas.  I  ask  not  who  thou  art. 

I  know  thy  face,  writ  over  with  deceit 
As  are  these  tattered  volumes  of  the  Law 
With  heathen  images.     A  priest  of  God 
Wast  thou  in  other  days,  but  thou  art  now. 
A  priest  of  Satan.     Traitor,  thou  art  Jason. 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


245 


Jaxon.     I  am  thy  prisoner,  Judas  Maccabaeus, 
And  it  would  ill  become  me  to  conceal 
My  name  or  office. 

Judas,  Over  yonder  gate 

There  hangs  the  head  of  one  who  was  a  Greek. 
What  should  prevent  me  now,  thou  man  <  f  sin, 
From  hanging  at  its  side  the  head  of  one 
Who  born  a  Jew  hath  made  himself  a  Greek  V 

Jason.     Justice  prevents  thee. 

Judas.     Justice  '{     Thou  art  stained 
With  every  crime  'gainst  which  the  Decalogue 
Thunders  with  all  its  thunder. 

Jason.  If  not  Justice, 

Then  Mercy,  her  handmaiden. 

Judas.  When  hast  thou 

At  any  time,  to  any  man  or  woman, 
Or  even  to  any  little  child,  shown  mercy  ? 

Jason.     I  have  but  done  what  King  Antiochug 
Commanded  me. 

Judas.  True,  thou  hast  been  the  weapon 

With    which    he    struck;    but  hast  been  such  a 

weapon, 

So  flexible,  so  fitted  to  his  hand, 
It  tempted  him  to  strike.     So  thou  hast  urged 

him 

To  double  wickedness,  thine  own  and  his. 
Where  is  this  King  V     Is  he  in  Antioch 
Among  his  women  still,  and  from  his  windows 
Throwing  dpwn  gold  by  handfuls,  for  the  rab 
ble 
To  scramble  for  ? 

Jason.     Nay,  he  is  gone  from  there, 
Gone  with  an  army  into  the  far  East. 

Judas.     And  wherefore  gone  V 

Jason.  I  know  not.     For  the  space 

Of  forty  days  almost  were  horsemen  seen 
Running  in  air,  in  cloth  of  gold,  and  armed 
With  lances,  like  a  band  of  soldiery  ; 
It  was  a  sign  of  triumph. 

Judas.  Or  of  death. 

Wherefore  art  thou  not  with  him  ? 

Jason.  I  was  left 

For  service  in  the  Temple. 

Judas.  To  pollute  it, 

And  to  corrupt  the  Jews  ;  for  there  are  men 
Whose   presence  is  corruption  ;  to  be  with  them 
Degrades  us  and  deforms  the  things  we  do. 

Jason.     I  never   made   a  boast,  as  some  men 

do, 

Of  my  superior  virtue,  nor  denied 
The  weakness  of  my  nature,    that   hath    made 

me 
Subservient  to  the  will  of  other  men. 

Judas.     Upon  this  day,  the  five-and-twentieth 

day 

Of  the  month  Caslan,  was  the  Temple  here 
Profaned  by  strangers, — by  Antiochus 
And  thee,  his  instrument.     Upon  this  day 
Shall  it  be  cleansed.     Thou,  who  didst  lend  thy 
self 

Unto  this  profanation ,  canst  not  be 
A  witness  of  these  solemn  services. 
There  can  be  nothing  clean  where  thou  art  pres 
ent. 

The  people  put  to  death  Callisthenes, 
Who  burned  the  Temple  gates  ;  and  if   they  find 

thee 

Will  surely  slay  thee.     I  will  spare  thy  life 
To  punish  thee  the  longer.      Thou  shalt  wander 
Among   strange  nations.     Thou,    that  hast  cast 

out 

So  many  from  their  native  land,  shalt  perish 
In  a  strange  land.     Thou,  that  hast  left  so  many 
Unburied,  shalt  have  none  to  mourn  for  thee, 
Nor  any  solemn  funerals  at  all, 
Nor  sepulchre  with  thy  fathers. — Get  thee  hence  ! 

\  Music.  Procession  of  Priests  and  people,  with 
citherns,  harps,  and  cymbals.  JUDAS  MACCA 
BAEUS  puts  himself  at  their  ftead,  and  they 
go  into  the  inner  courts.) 


SCENE  III. — JASON,   alone. 

Jason.     Through    the    Gate   Beautiful   I    see 

them  come 
With  branches   and  green  boughs  and   leaves  of 

palm, 

And  pass  into  the  inner  courts.     Alas  ! 
I  should  be  with  them,  should  be  one  of  them, 
But  in  an  evil  hour,  an  hour  of  weakness, 
That  cometh  unto  all,  I  fell  away 
From  the  old  faith,  and  did  not  clutch  the  new, 
Only  an  outward  semblance  of  belief ; 
For  the  new  faith  I  cannot  make  mine  own, 
Not  being  born  to  it.     It  hath  no  root 
Within  me.     I  am  neither  Jew  nor  Greek, 
But  stand  between  them  both,  a  renegade 
To  each  in  turn  ;  having  no  longer  faith 
In  gods  or  men.     Then  what  mysterious  charm, 
What  fascination  is  it  chains  my  feet, 
And  keeps  me  gazing  like  a  curious  child 
Into  the  holy  places,  where  the  priests 
Have  raised   their   altar  ?  —  Striking  stones  to 

gether, 

They  take  fire  out  of  them,  and  light  the  lamps 
In  the  great  candlestick.     They  spread  the  veils, 
And  set  the  loaves  of  showbread  on  the  table. 
The  incense  burns  ;  the  well-remembered  odor 
Comes  wafted  unto  me,  and  takes  me  back 
To  other  days.     I  see  myself  among  them 
As  I  was  then  ;  and  the  old  superstition 
Creeps  over  me  again  !  —  A  childish  fancy  !  — 
And    hark!     they  sing  with   citherns   and  with 

cymbals, 

And  all  the  people  fall  upon  their  faces. 
Praying  and  worshipping!  — I  will  away 
Into  the  East,  to  meet  Antiochus 
Upon    his     homeward    journey,    crowned    with 

triumph. 

Alas  !  to-day  I  would  give  everything 
To  see  a  friend's  face,  or  to  hear  a  voice 
That  had  the  slightest  tone  of  comfort  in  it  ! 


ACT  V. 

The  Mountains  of  Ecbatana. 
SCENE  I.  —  ANTIOCHUS  ;  PHILIP  ;  ATTENDANTS. 

Ant.     Here  let  us  rest  awhile.     Where  are  we, 

Philip  ? 
What  place  is  this  ? 

Philip.  Ecbatana,  my  Lord  ; 

And  yonder  mountain  range  is  the  Orontes. 

Ant.     The  Orontes  is  my  river  at  Antioch. 
Why  did  I  leave  it  V  \\hy  have  I  been  tempted 
By  coverings  of  gold  and  shields  and  breastplates 
To  plunder  Elymais,  and  be  driven 
From  out  its  gates,  as  by  a  fiery  blast 
Out  of  a  furnace  ? 

Philip.     These  are  fortune's  changes. 

Ant.      What  a  defeat    it  was !     The    Persian 

horsemen 

Came  like  a  mighty  wind,  the   wind  Khamaseen, 
And  melted  us  away,  and  scattered  us 
As  if  we  were  dead  leaves,  or  desert  sand. 

Philip.       Be    comforted,  my  Lord  ;  for    thou 

hast  lost 
But  what  thou  hadst  not. 

Ant.  I,  who  made  the  Jews 

Skip  like  the  grasshoppers,  am  made  myself 
To  skip  among  these  stones. 

Philip-  Be  not  discouraged. 

Thy  realm  of  Syria  remains  to  thee  ; 
That  is  not  lost  nor  marred. 

Ant.  O,  where  are  now 

The  splendors  of  my  court,  my  baths  and  ban 
quets  ? 


246 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


Where  are  my  players  arid  my  dancing  women  ? 
Where  are  my  sweet  musicians  with  their  pipes, 
That  made  me  merry  in  the  olden  time  V 
I  am  a  laughing-stock  to  man  and  brute. 
The  very  camels,  with  their  ugly  faces, 
Mock  me  and  laugh  at  me. 

Philip.  Alas  !  my  Lord, 

It  is  not  so.     If  thou  wouldst  sleep  awhile, 
All  would  be  well. 

Ant  Sleep  from  mine  eyes  is  gone, 

And  my  heart  faileth  me  for  very  care. 
Dost  thou  remember,  Philip,  the  old  fable 
Told  us  when  we  were  boys,  in  which  the  bear 
Going  for  honey  overturns  the  hive, 
And  is  stung  blind  by  bees  ?     I  am  that  beast, 
Stung  by  the  Persian  swarms  of  Elymais. 

Philip.     When  thou  art  come  again  to  Antioch 
These  thoughts  will  be  as  covered  and  forgotten, 
As  are  the  tracks  of  Pharaoh's  chariot-wheels 
In  the  Egyptian  sands. 

Ant.  '  Ah  !  when  I  come 

Again  to  Antioch !    When  will  that  be  V 
Alas  !     alas ! 


SCENE  II.  — ANTIOCHUS;   PHILIP;     A  MESSEN- 

GEK. 

Messenger.     May  the  King  live  forever ! 

Ant.    Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 

Messenger.  My  Lord, 

I  am  a  messenger  from  Antioch, 
Sent  here  by  Lysias. 

Ant.  A  strange  foreboding 

Of  something  evil  overshadows  me. 
I  am  no  reader  of  the  Jewish  Scriptures  ; 
I  know  not  Hebrew ;  but  my  High-Priest  Jason, 
As  I  remember,  told  me  of  a  Prophet 
Who  saw  a  little  cloud  rise  from  the  sea 
Like  a  man's  hand,    and   soon  the  heaven  was 

black 
With  clouds  and  rain.      Here,    Philip,    read ;  I 

cannot ; 

I  see  that  cloud.     It  makes  the  letters  dim 
Before  mine  eyes. 

PhilijJ  (reading.)     "  To  King  Antiochus, 
The  God,  Epiphanes." 

Ant.  O  mockery 

Even  Lysias  laughs  at  me  ! — Go  on,  go  on  ! 

Philip  (reading).  "We  pray  thee  hasten 

thy  return.     The  realm 
Is  falling  from  thee.     Since  thou  hast  gone  from 

us 

The  victories  of  Judas  Maccabaeus 
Form  all  our  annals.     First  he  overthrew 
Thy  forces  at  Beth-horon,  and  passed  on, 
And  took  Jerusalem,  the  Holy  City. 
And  then  Emmaus  fell ;  and  then  Bethsura  ;. 
Ephron  and  all  the  towns  of  Galaad, 
And  Maccabaeus  marched  to  Camion. '' 

Ant.     Enough,  enough  !     Go  call  my  chariot- 
men  ; 

We  will  drive  forward,  forward,  without  ceasing, 
Until  we  come  to  Antioch.     My  captains, 


My  Lysias,  Gorgias,  Seron,  and  Nicanor, 
Are  babes  in  battle,  and  this  dreadful  Jew 
Will  rob  me  of  my  kingdom  and  my  crown. 
My  elephants  shall  trample  him  to  dust ; 
I  will  wipe  out  his  nation,  and  will  make 
Jerusalem  a  common  burying-place, 
And  every  home  within  its  walls  a  tomb  ! 

(Throws  up  his  liands,  and  sinks  into  the  arms  of 
attendants,  who  lay  hint,  upon  a  bank. ) 

Philip.     Antiochus  !  Antiochus  !  Alas, 
The  King  is  ill !     What  is  it,  O  my  Lord  "i 

Ant.     Nothing.     A  sudden  and  sharp  spasm  of 

pain, 

As  if  the  lightning  struck  me,  or  the  knife 
Of  an  assassin  smote  me  to  the  heart. 
'T  is   passed,  even  as   it  came.     Let  us  set  for 
ward. 

Philip.     See  that  the  chariots  be  in  readiness ; 
We  will  depart  forthwith. 

Ant.  A  moment  more. 

I  cannot  stand.     I  am  become  at  once 
Weak  as  an  infant.     Ye  will  have  to  lead  me. 
Jove,  or  Jehovah,  or  whatever  name 
Thou  wouldst  be  named, — it  is  alike  to  me, — 
If  I  knew  how  to  pray,  1  would  entreat 
To  live  a  little  longer. 

Philip.  O  my  Lord 

Thou  shalt  not  die  ;  we  will  not  let  thee  die  ! 

Ant.     How  canst  thou  help  it,  Philip  ?      O  the 

pain  ! 

Stab  after  stab.     Thou  hast  no  shield  against 
This  unseen  weapon.     God  of  Israel, 
Since  all  the  other  gods  abandon  me, 
Help  me.     I  will  release  the  Holy  City, 
Garnish  with  goodly  gifts  the  Holy  Temple. 
Thy  people,  whom  I  judged  to  be  unworthy 
To  be  so  much  as  buried,  shall  be  equal 
Unto  the  citizens  of  Antioch. 
I  will  become  a  Jew,  and  will  declare 
Through  all  the  world  that  is  inhabited 
The  power  of  God  ! 

Philip.     He  faints.     It  is  like  death. 
Bring  here  the  royal  litter.     We  will  bear  him 
Into  the  camp,  while  yet  he  lives. 

Ant.  O  Philip, 

Into  what  tribulation  am  I  come  ! 
Alas  !     I  now  remember  all  the  evil 
That  I  have  done  the  Jews  ;  and  for  this  cause 
These  troubles  are  upon  me,  and  behold 
I  perish  through  great  grief  in  a  strange  land. 

Philip.     Antiochus  !     my  King  ! 

Ant.  Nay,  King  no  longer. 

Take  thou  my  royal  robes,  my  signet-ring, 
My  crown  and  sceptre,  and  deliver  them 
Unto  my  son,  Antiochus  Eupator  ; 
And  unto  the  good  Jews,  my  citizens, 
In  all  my  towns,  say  that  their  dying  monarch 
j  Wisheth  them  joy,  prosperity,  and  health. 
'  I  who,  puffed  up  with  pride  and  arrogance. 
Thought  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  mine  own, 
If  I  would  but   outstretch  my   hand  and    take 

them, 

Meet  face  to  face  a  greater  potentate, 
King  Death— Epiphanes — the  Illustrious  !   [Dirf, 


THE  FUGITIVE.— THE  SIEGE  OF  KAZAN. 


247 


A  HANDFUL  OF   TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  FUGITIVE. 

Tartar  Song  from  the  Prose 
Ghodzko. 


I. 


Version    of 


"  HE  is  gone  to  the  desert  land  ! 
I  can  see  the  shining  mane 
Of  his  horse  on  the  distant  plain, 
As  he  rides  with  his  Kossak  band  ! 

''Come  back,  rebellious  one  ! 
IJet  thy  proud  heart  relent  ; 
Come  back  to  my  tall,  white  tent, 
Come  back,  my  only  son  ! 

"  Thy  hand  in  freedom  shall 
Cast  thy  hawks,  when  morning  breaks, 
On  the  swans  of  the  Seven  Lakes, 
On  the  lakes  of  Karajal. 

"  I  will  give  thee  leave  to  stray 
And  pasture  thy  hunting  steeds 
In  the  long  grass  and  the  reeds 
Of  the  meadows  of  Karaday. 

"  I  will  give  thee  my  coat  of  mail, 
Of  softest  leather  made. 
With  choicest  steel  inlaid  ; 
Will  not  all  this  prevail  V  " 

II. 

"  THIS  hand  no  longer  shall 
Cast  my  hawks,  when  morning  breaks, 
On  the  swans  of  the  Seven  Lakes, 
On  the  lakes  of  Karajal. 

"  I  will  no  longer  stray 
And  pasture  my  hunting  steeds 
In  the  long  grass  and  the  reeds 
Of  the  meadows  of  Karaday. 

"  Though  thou  give  me  thy  coat  of  mail. 
Of  softest  leather  made, 
With  choicest  steel  inlaid, 
All  this  cannot  prevail. 

"  What  right  hast  thou,  O  Khan, 
To  me,  who  am  mine  own, 
Who  am  slave  to  God  alone, 
And  not  to  any  man  V 

"  God  will  appoint  the  day 

When  I  again  shall  be 

By  the  blue,  shallow  sea, 

Where  the  steel-bright  sturgeons  play. 

"  God,  who  doth  care  f.or  me, 
In  the  barren  wilderness, 
On  unknown  hills,  no  less 
Will  my  companion  be. 

"  When  I  wander  lonely  and  lost 
In  the  wind ;  when  I  watch  at  night 
Like  a  hungry  wolf,  and  am  white 
And  covered  with  hoar-frost ; 

' '  Yea,  wheresoever  I  be, 
In  the  yellow  desert  sands, 
In  mountains  or  unknown  lands, 
Allah  will  care  for  me  !  " 


III. 

THEN  Sobra,  the  old,  old  man,— 
Three  hundred  and  sixty  years 
Had  he  lived  in  this  land  of  tears, 
Bowed  down  and  said,  "O  Khan  ! 

"  If  you  bid  me,  I  will  speak 
There  's  no  sap  in  dry  grass, 
No  marrow  in  dry  bones  !     Alas, 
The  mind  of  old  men  is  weak  ! 

"I  am  old,  I  am  very  old  : 

I  have  seen  the  primeval  man, 

I  have  seen  the  great  Gengis  Khan, 

Arrayed  in  his  robes  of  gold. 

' '  What  I  say  to  you  is  the  truth  ; 
And  I  say  to  you,  O  Khan, 
Pursue  not  the  star-white  man, 
Pursue  not  the  beautiful  youth. 

"  Him  the  Almighty  made, 
And  brought  him  forth  of  the  light, 
At  the  verge  and  end  of  the  night, 
When  men  on  the  mountain  prayed. 

"  He  was  born  at  the  break  of  day, 
When  abroad  the  angels  walk  ; 
He  hath  listened  to  their  talk, 
And  he  knoweth  what  they  say. 

"  Gifted  with  Allah's  grace, 
Like  the  moon  of  Ramazan 
When  it  shines  in  the  skies,  O  Khan, 
Is  the  light  of  his  beautiful  face. 

"When  first  on  earth  he  trod, 
The  first  words  that  he  said 
Were  these,  as  he  stood  and  prayed, 
There  is  no  God  but  God  ! 

"  And  he  shall  be  king  of  men, 
For  Allah  hath  heard  his  prayer, 
And  the  Archangel  in  the  air, 
Gabriel,  hath  said,  Amen  !  " 


THE  SIEGE  OF  KAZAN. 

Tartar  Song,  from  the  Prose  Version  of 
Chodzko. 

BLACK  are  the  moors  before  Kazan. 

And  their  stagnant  waters  smell  of  blood  ; 
I  said  in  my  heart,  with  horse  and  man, 

I  will  swim  across  this  shallow  flood. 

Under  the  feet  of  Argamack, 

Like  new  moons  were  the  shoes  he  bare, 
Silken  trappings  hung  on  his  back, 

In  a  talisman  on  his  neck,  a  prayer. 

My  warriors,  thought  I,  are  following  me  ; 

But  when  I  looked  behind,  alas  ! 
Not  one  of  all  the  band  could  I  see. 

All  had  sunk  in  the  black  morass  ! 


248 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK— TO  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU. 


Where  are  our  shallow  fords  ?  and  where 
The  power  of  Kazan  with  its  fourfold  gates  ? 

From  the  prison  windows  our  maidens  fair 
Talk  of  us  still  through  the  iron  grates. 

We  cannot  hear  them  ;  for  horse  and  man 
Lie  buried  deep  in  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Ah  !  the  black  day  hath  come  down  on  Kazan  ! 
Ah  !  was  ever  a  grief  like  this  ? 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK. 

Armenian  Popular  Song,  from  the  Prose  Ver 
sion  of  Alishan. 

DOWN  from  yon  distant  mountain  height 

The  brooklet  flows  through  the  village  street ; 
A  boy  comes  forth  to  wash  his  hands, 
Washing,  yes  washing,  there  he  stands, 
In  the  water  cool  and  sweet. 

Brook,  from  what  mountain  dost  thou  come, 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  come  from  yon  mountain  high  and  cold, 
Where  lieth  the  new  snow  on  the  old, 

And  melts  in  the  summer  heat. 

Brook,  to  what  river  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  river  there  below 
Where  in  bunches  the  violets  grow, 

And  sun  and  shadow  meet. 

Brook,  to  what  garden  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  garden  in  the  vale 
Where  all  night  long  the  nightingale 

Her  love-song  doth  repeat. 

Brook,  to  what  fountain  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  fountain  at  whose  brink 
The  maid  that  loves  thee  comes  to  drink, 
And  whenever  she  looks  therein, 
I  rise  to  meet  her,  and  kiss  her  chin, 

And  my  joy  is  then  complete. 


TO  THE  STORK. 

Armenian  Popular  Song,  from  the  Prose  Ver 
sion  of  Alishan. 

WELCOME,  O  Stork  !  that  dost  wing 

Thy  flight  from  the  far-away  ! 
Thou  hast  brought  us  the  signs  of  Spring 

Thou  hast  made  our  sad  hearts  gay. 

Descend,  O  Stork  !  descend 

Upon  our  roof  to  rest ; 
In  our  ash-tree,  O  my  friend, 

My  darling,  make  thy  nest. 

To  thee,  O  Stork,  I  complain, 

O  Stork,  to  thee  I  impart 
The  thousand  sorrows,  the  pain 

And  aching  of  my  heart. 

When  thou  away  didst  go, 

Away  from  this  tree  of  ours, 
The  withering  winds  did  blow, 

And  dried  up  all  the  flowers. 

Dark  grew  the  brilliant  sky, 

Cloudy  and  dark  and  drear  ; 
They  were  breaking  the  snow  on  high, 

And  winter  was  drawing  near. 


From  Varaca's  rocky  wall, 

From  the  rock  of  Varaca  unrolled, 
The  snow  came  and  covered  all, 

And  the  green  meadow  was  cold. 

O  Stork,  our  garden  with  snow 
Was  hidden  away  and  lost, 

And  the  rose-trees  that  in  it  grow 
Were  withered  by  snow  and  frost. 


CONSOLATION. 

To  M.  Duperrier,   Gentleman  of  Aix   in  Pro 
vence,  on  the  Death  of  his  Daughter. 

PROM  MALHERBE. 

WlLl,  then,  Duperrier,  thy  sorrow  be  eternal  ? 

And  shall  the  sad  discourse 

Whispered  within  thy  heart,   by  tenderness  pa 
ternal, 

Only  augment  its  force  ? 

Thy    daughter's    mournful  fate,  into  the   tomb 
descending 

By  death's  frequented  ways, 
Has  it  become  to  thee  a  labyrinth  never  ending, 

Where  thy  lost  reason  strays  ? 

I  know  the  charms  that  made  her  youth  a  bene 
diction  : 

Nor  should  I  be  content, 
As  a  censorious  friend,  to  solace  thine  affliction 

By  her  disparagement. 

But  she  was  of  the  world,  which  fairest  things 

exposes 

To  fates  the  most  forlorn ; 
A  rose,  she  too  hath  lived  as  long  as  live  the  roses, 

The  space  of  one  brief  morn. 
***** 

Death  has  his  rigorous  laws,  unparalleled,  unfeel 
ing  ; 

All  prayers  to  him  are  vain ; 

Cruel,  he  stops  his  ears,  and,  deaf  to  our  appeal 
ing. 
He  leaves  us  to  complain. 

The  poor  man  in  his  hut,   with   only  thatch  for 

cover, 

Unto  these  laws  must  bend  ; 
The   sentinel    that   guards   the   barriers  of  the 

Louvre 
Cannot  our  kings  defend. 

To  murmur  against  death,  in  petulant  defiance, 

Is  never  for  the  best ; 

To  will  what  God  doth   will,    that   is  the  only 
science 

That  gives  us  any  rest. 


TO  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU. 

FROM   MALHERBE. 

THOU  mighty  Prince  of  Church  and  State, 
Richelieu  !  until  the  hour  of  death, 
Whatever  road  man  chooses,  Fate 
Still  holds  him  subject  to  her  breath. 
Spun  of  all  silks,  our  days  and  nights 
Have  sorrows  woven  with  delights ; 
And  of  this  intermingled  shade 
Our  various  destiny  appears, 
Even  as  one  sees  the  course  of  years 
Of  summers  and  of  winters  made. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD.— SANTA  TERESA'S  BOOK-MARK. 


249 


Sometimes  the  soft,  deceitful  hours 
Let  us  enjoy  the  halcyon  wave ; 
Sometimes  impending  peril  lowers 
Beyond  the  seaman's  skill  to  save. 
The  Wisdom,  infinitely  wise. 
That  gives  to  human  destinies 
Their  foreordained  necessity, 
Has  made  no  law  more  fixed  below, 
Than  the  alternate  ebb  and  flow 
Of  Fortune  and  Adversity. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD. 

FROM    JEAN  REBOUL,    THE   BAKER   OF   MSMES. 

AN  angel  with  a  radiant  face, 

Above  a  cradle  bent  to  look, 
Seemed  his  own  image  there  to  trace, 

As  in  the  waters  of  a  brook. 

"  Dear  child  !  who  me  resemblest  so," 
It  whispered,  "  come,  O  come  with  me  ! 

Happy  together  let  us  go, 

The  earth  unworthy  is  of  thee  ! 

"  Here  none  to  perfect  bliss  attain  ; 

The  soul  in  pleasure  suffering  lies  ; 
Joy  hath  an  undertone  of  pain, 

And  even  the  happiest  hours  their  sighs. 

"  Fear  doth  at  every  portal  knock  ; 

Never  a  day  serene  and  pure 
From  the  o'ershadowing  tempest's  shock 

Hath  made  the  morrow's  dawn  secure. 

"What,  then,  shall  sorrows  and  shall  fears 
Come  to  disturb  so  pure  a  brow  ? 

And  with  the  bitterness  of  tears 
These  eyes  of  azure  troubled  grow  V 

"  Ah  no  !  into  the  fields  of  space, 
Away  shalt  thou  escape  with  me ; 

And  Providence  will  grant  the  grace 
Of  all  the  days  that  were  to  be. 

"  Let  110  one  in  thy  dwelling  cower, 
In  sombre  vestments  draped  and  veiled ; 

But  let  them  welcome  thy  last  hour, 
As  thy  first  moments  once  they  hailed. 

*'  Without  a  cloud  be  there  each  brow  ; 

There  let  the  grave  no  shadow  cast ; 
When  one  is  pure  as  thou  art  now, 

The  fairest  day  is  still  the  last." 

And  waving  wide  his  wings  of  white, 
The  angel,  at  these  words,  had  sped 

Towards  the  eternal  realms  of  light ! — 
Poor  mother  !  see,  thy  son  is  dead  ! 


TO  ITALY. 

FROM   FILICAJA. 

(ITALY  !  Italy  !  thou  who  'rt  doomed  to  wear 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  and  possess 
The  dower  f  unest  of  infinite  wretchedness 
Written  upon  thy  forehead  by  despair  ; 

Ah  !  would  that  thou  wert  stronger,  or  less  fair. 
That  they  might  fear  thee  more,  or  love  thee  less, 
Who  in  the  splendor  of  thy  loveliness 
Seem  wasting,  yet  to  mortal  combat  dare  ! 

Then  from  the  Alps  I  should  not  see  descending 
Such  torrents  of  armed  men,  nor  Gallic  horde 
Drinking  the  wave  of  Po,  distained  with  gore, 

Nor  should  I  see  thee  girded  with  a  sword 

Not  thine,  and  with  the  stranger's  arm  con 
tending, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  slave  forevermore. 


WANDERER'S  NIGHT-SONGS. 


FROM    GOETHE. 


L 


THOU  that  from  the  heavens  art, 
Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 
Doubly  with  refreshment  tillest, 
I  am  weary  with  contending  ! 
Why  this  rapture  and  unrest  "i 
Peace  descending 
Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast ! 

II. 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops 

Is  quiet  now, 

In  all  the  tree-tops 

Hearest  thou 

Hardly  a  breath ; 

The  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees  : 

Wait ;  soon  like  these : 

Thou  too  shalt  rest. 


REMORSE. 

FROM  AUGUST  VON  PLATEN. 

How  I  started  up  in  the  night,  in  the  night, 
Drawn  on  without  rest  or  reprieval ! 

The  streets,  with  their  watchmen,  were  lost  te 

my  sight, 

As  I  wandered  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night. 

Through  the  gate  with  the  arch  mediaeval. 

The  mill-brook  rushed  from  the  rocky  height. 

I  leaned  o'er  the  bridge  in  my  yearning ; 
Deep  under  me  watched  I  the  waves  in  their 
flight. 

As  they  glided  so  light 

In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
Yet  backward  not  one  was  returning. 


O'er 


countless    and 


head    were    revolving 
bright, 

The  stars  in  melodious  existence ; 
And   with   them   the  moon,   more   serenely  be- 

dight  ;— 

They  sparkled  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
Through  the  magical,  measureless  distance. 

And  upward  I  gazed  in  the  night,  in  the  night, 
And  again  on  the  waves  in  their  fleeting  ; 

Ah  woe  !  thou  hast  wasted  thy  days  in  delight, 
Now  silence  thou  light, 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

The  remorse  in  thy  heart  that  is  beating. 


SANTA  TERESA'S  BOOK-MARK. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH  OF   SANTA   TERESA. 

LKT  nothing  disturb  thee, 
Nothing  affright  thee  ; 
All  things  are  passing ; 
God  never  changeth  ; 
Patient  endurance 
Attaineth  to  all  things  ; 
Who  God  possesseth 
In  nothing  is  wanting ; 
Alone  God  sufficeth. 


250 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


THE  MASQTJE   OF  PAJTOOKA. 


THE  WORKSHOP  OF  HEPHAESTUS. 

HEPHAESTUS,  standing  before  the  statue  of  Pan 
dora. 

NOT  fashioned  out  of  Gold,  like  Hera's  throne, 
Nor  forged  of  iron  like  the  thunderbolts 
Of  Zeus  omnipotent,  or  other  works 
Wrought  by  my  hands  at  Lemnos  05  Olympus, 
But  moulded  in  soft  clay,  that  unresisting 
Yields  itself  to  the  touch,  this  lovely  form 
Before  me  stands  perfect  in  every  part. 
Not  Aphrodite's  self  appeared  more  fair, 
When  first  upwafted  by  caressing  winds 
She  came  to  high  Olympus,  and  the  gods 
Paid  homage  to  her  beauty.     Thus  her  hair 
Was  cinctured  ;  thus  her  floating  drapery 
Was  like  a  cloud  about  her,  and  her  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  sunshine  and  the  sea. 

THE  VOICE  OF  ZEUS. 

IB  thy  work  done,  Hephaestus  ? 


HEPHAESTUS. 


THE  VOICE. 


It  is  finished ! 


Not  finished  till  I  breath  the  breath  of  life 
Into  her  nostrils,  and  she  moves  and  speaks. 

HEPHAESTUS. 

Will  she  become  immortal  like  ourselves  ? 

THE  VOICE. 

The  form  that  thou  hast  fashioned  out  of  clay 
Is  of  the  earth  and  mortal ;  but  the  spirit, 
The  life,  the  exhalation  of  my  breath, 
Is  of  diviner  essence  and  immortal. 
The  gods  shall  shower  on  her  their  benefactions, 
She  shall  possess  all  gifts  :  the  gift  of  song, 
The  gift  of  eloquence,  the  gift  of  beauty, 
The  fascination  and  the  nameless  charm 
That  shall  lead  all  men  captive. 

HEPHAESTUS. 

Wherefore  ?  wherefore  ? 
A  wind  shakes,  the  house. 

i  hear  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind 

Through  all  the  halls  and  chambers  of  my  house  ! 

Her  parted  lips  inhale  it,  and  her  bosom 

Heaves  with  the  inspiration.     As  a  reed 

Beside  a  river  in  the  rippling  current 

Bends  to  and  fro,  she  bows  or  lifts  her  head. 

She  gazes  round  about  as  if  amazed  ; 

She  is  alive  ;  she  breathes,  but  yet  she  speaks  not ! 

Pandora  descends  from  the  pedestal. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  GRACES. 
AGLAIA. 

In  the  workshop  of  Hephaestus 

What  is  this  I  see  V 
Have  the  Gods  to  four  increased  us 

Who  were  only  three  ? 
Beautiful  in  form  and  feature, 

Lovely  as  the  day, 
Can  there  be  so  fair  a  creature 

Formed  of  common  clay  ? 


O  sweet,  pale  face  !     O  lovely  eyes  of  azure. 
Clear  as  the  waters  of  a  brook  that  run 
Limpid  and  laughing  in  the  summer  sun  ! 
O  golden  hair  that  like  a  miser's  treasure 

In  its  abundance  overflows  the  measure  ! 
O  graceful  form,  that  cloudlike  floatest  on 
With  the  soft,  undulating  gait  of  one 
Who  moveth  as  if  motion  were  a  pleasure  ! 

By  what  name  shall  I  call  thee  ?  Nymph  or  Muse, 
Callirrhoe  or  Urania  V    [Some  sweet  name 
Whose  every  syllable  is  a  caress 
Would  best  befit  thee  ;  but  I  cannot  choose, 
Nor  do  I  care  to  choose  :  for  still  the  same, 
Nameless  or  named,  will  be  thy  loveliness. 

EUPHROSYNE. 

Dowered  with  all  celestial  gifts, 

Skilled  in  every  art 
That  ennobles  and  uplifts 

And  delights  the  heart, 
Fair  on  earth  shall  be  thy  fame 

As  thy  face  is  fair, 
And  Pandora  be  the  name 

Thou  henceforth  shalt  bear. 


II. 
OLYMPUS. 

HERMES,  putting  on  his  sandals. 

MUCH  must  he  toil  who  serves  the  Immortal  Gods, 
And  I,  who  am  their  herald,  most  of  all. 
No  rest  have  I,  nor  respite.     I  no  sooner 
Unclasp  the  winged  sandals  from  my  feet. 
Than  I  again  must  clasp  them,  and  depart 
Upon  some  foolish  errand.     But  to-day 
The  errand  is  not  foolish.     Never  yet 
With  greater  joy  did  I  obey  the  summons 
That  sends  me  earthward.     I  will  fly  so  swiftly 
That  my  caduceus  in  the  whistling  air 
Shall  make  a  sound  like  the  Pandaean  pipes, 
Cheating  the  shepherds  ;  for  to-day  I  go. 
Commissioned  by  high-thundering  Zeus,  to  lead 
A  maiden  to  Prometheus,  In  his  tower. 
And  by  my  cunning  arguments  persuade  him 
To  marry  her.     What  mischief  lies  concealed 
In  this  design  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 
Who  thinks  of  marrying  hath  already  taken 
One  step  upon  the  road  to  penitence. 
Such  embassies  delight  me.     Forth  I  launch 
On  the  sustaining  air,  nor  fear  to  fall 
Like  Icarus,  nor  swerve  aside  like  him 
Who  drove  amiss  Hyperion's  fiery  steeds. 
I  sink,  I  fly  !     The  yielding  element 
Folds  itself  round  about  me  like  an  arm, 
i  And  holds  me  as  a  mother  holds  her  child. 


ni. 

TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT 
CAUCASUS. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  HEAR  the  trumpet  of  Alectryon 
Proclaim  the  dawn.     The  stars  begin  to  fade, 
And  all  the  heavens  are  full  of  prophecies 
And  evil  auguries.     Blood-red  last  night 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


251 


I  saw  great  Kronos  rise  ;  the  crescent  moon 
Sank  through  the  mist,  as  if  it  were  the  scythe 
His  parricidal  hand  had  flung  far  down 
The  western  steeps.     O  ye  Immortal  Gods, 
What  evil  are  ye  plotting  and  contriving  ? 

HEKMES  and  PANDORA  at  the  threshold. 


I  cannot  cross  the  threshold .     An  unseen 
And  icy  hand  repels  me.     These  blank  walls 
Oppress  me  with  their  weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerful  ye  are, 

But  not  omnipotent.     Ye  cannot  fight 
Against  Necessity.     The  Fates  control  you, 
As  they  do  us,  and  so  far  we  are  equals  ! 

PANDORA. 

Motionless,  passionless,  companionless, 

He  sits  there  muttering  in  his  beard.     His  voice 

Is  like  a  river  flowing  underground  ! 


HERMES. 


Prometheus,  hail ! 


It  is  I. 


PROMETHEUS. 

Who  calls  me  ? 

HERMES. 

Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

By  thy  winged  cap 
And    winged    heels    I    know  thee.      Thou    art 

Hermes, 

Captain  of  thieves  !     Hast  thou  again  been  steal 
ing 

The  heifers  of  Admetus  in  the  sweet 
Meadows  of  asphodel  V   or  Hera's  girdle  V 
Or  the  earth-shaking  trident  of  Poseidon  ? 


And  thou,  Prometheus  ;  say,  hast  thou  again 
Been  stealing  fire  from  Helios'  chariot-wheels 
To  light  thy  furnaces  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why  comest  thou  hither 
So  early  in  the  dawn  ? 

HERMES. 

The  Immortal  Gods 

Know  naught  of  late  or  early.  Zeus  himself 
The  omnipotent  hath  sent  me. 

PROMETHEUS. 

For  what  purpose  ? 

HERMES. 

To  bring  this  maiden  to  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  mistrust 
The  Gods  and  all  their  gifts.     If  they  have  sent 

her 
It  is  for  no  good  purpose. 

HERMES. 

What  disaster 
Could  she  bring  on  thy  house,  who  is  a  woman  ? 


PROMETHEUS. 


The  Gods  are  not  my  friends,  nor  am  I  theirs. 
Whatever  comes  from  them,  though  in  a  shape 
As  beautiful  as  this,  is  evil  only. 
Who  art  thou  ? 


One  who,  though  to  thee  unknown, 
Yet  knoweth  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  shouldst  thou  know  me,  woman  ? 

PANDORA. 

Who  knoweth  not  Prometheus  the  humane  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus  the  unfortunate ;  to  whom 
Both  Gods  and  men  have  shown  themselves  un 
grateful. 

When  every  spark  was  quenched  on  every  hearth 
Throughout  the  earth,  I  brought  to  man  the  fire 
And  all  its  ministrations.     My  reward 
Hath  been  the  rock  and  vulture. 


At  last  relent  and  pardon. 


But  the  Gods 


PROMETHEUS. 


They  relent  not ; 

They  pardon  not ;  they  are  implacable, 
Revengeful,  unforgiving ! 


As  a  pledge 

Of  reconciliation  they  have  sent  to  thee 
This  divine  being,  to  be  thy  companion, 
And  bring  into  thy  melancholy  house 
The  sunshine  and  the  fragrance  of  her  youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  need  them  not.     I  have  within  myself 
All  that  my  heart  desires  ;  the  ideal  beauty 
Which  the  creative  faculty  of  mind 
Fashions  and  follows  in  a  thousand  shapes 
More  lovely  than  the  real.     My  own  thoughts 
Arc  my  companions  ;  my  designs  and  labors 
And  aspirations  are  my  only  friends. 


Decide  not  rashly.     The  decision  made 
Can  never  be  recalled.     The  Gods  implore  not, 
Plead  not,  solicit  not;  they  only  offer 
Choice  and  occasion,  which  once  being  passed 
Return  no  more.     Dost  thou  accept  the  gift? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No  gift  of  theirs,  in  whatsoever  shape 
It  comes  to  me,  with  whatsoever  charm 
To  fascinate  my  sense,  will  I  receive. 
Leave  me. 

PANDORA. 

Let  us  go  hence.     I  will  not  stay. 


We  leave  thee  to  thy  vacant  dreams,  and  all 
The  silence  and  the  solitude  of  thought, 
The  endless  bitterness  of  unbelief, 
The  loneliness  of  existence  \\  ithout  love. 


252 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


CHOKUS   OF   THE  FATES. 


How  the  Titan,  the  defiant, 
The  self-centred,  self-reliant, 
Wrapped  in  visions  and  illusions, 
Robs  himself  of  life's  best  gifts ! 
Till  by  all  the  storm-winds  shaken, 
By  the  blast  of  fate  o'ertaken, 
Hopeless,  helpless,  and  forsaken, 
In  the  mists  of  his  confusions 
To  the  reefs  of  doom  he  drifts  ! 


Sorely  tired  and  sorely  tempted, 
From  no  agonies  exempted, 
In  the  penance  of  his  trial, 
And  the  discipline  of  pain  ; 
Often  by  illusions  cheated, 
Often  baffled  and  defeated 
In  the  tasks  to  be  completed, 
He,  by  toil  and  self-denial, 
To  the  highest  shall  attain. 


Tempt  no  more  the  noble  schemer ; 
Bear  unto  some  idle  dreamer 
This  new  toy  and  fascination, 
This  new  dalliance  and  delight ! 
To  the  garden  where  reposes 
Epimetheus  crowned  with  roses, 
To  the  door  that  never  closes 
Upon  pleasure  and  temptation. 
Bring  this  vision  of  the  night  ! 


THE  AIR. 

HERMES,  returning  to  Olympus. 

As  lomjly  as  the  tower  that  he  inhabits, 
As  firm  and  cold  as  are  the  crags  about  him, 
Prometheus  stands.     The  thunderbolts  of  Zeus 
Alone  can  move  him  ;  but  the  tender  heart 
Of  Epimetheus,  burning  at  white  heat, 
Hammers  and  flames  like  all  his  brother's  forges  ! 
Now  as  an  arrow  from  Hyperion's  bow, 
My  errand  done,  I  fly,  I  float,  I  soar 
Into  the  air  returning  to  Olympus. 

0  joy  of  motion  !     O  delight  to  cleave 

The  infinite  realms  of  space,  the  liquid  ether, 
Through   the  warm  sunshine  and   the    cooling 

cloud, 

Myself  as  light  as  sunbeam  or  as  cloud  ! 
With  one  touch  of  my  swift  and  winged  feet, 

1  spurn  the  solid  earth,  and  leave  it  rocking 

As  rocks  the  bough  from  which  a  bird  takes 
wing. 

V. 

THE  HOUSE  OP  EPIMETHEUS. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

BEAUTIFUL  apparition !  go  not  hence  ! 
Surely  thou  art  a  Goddess,  for  thy  voice 
Is  a  celestial  melody,  and  thy  form 
Self -poised  as  if  it  floated  on  the  air  ! 

PANDORA. 

No  Goddess  am  I,  nor  of  heavenly  birth, 
But  a  mere  woman  fashioned  out  of  clay 
And  mortal  as  the  rest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy  face  is  fair  ; 
There  is  a  wonder  in  thine  azure  eyes 


That  fascinates  me.     Thy  whole  presence  seems 
A  soft  desire,  a  breathing  thought  of  love. 
Say,  would  thy  star  like  Merope's  grow  dim 
If  thou  shouldst  wed  beneath  thee  ? 


PANDORA. 

I  cannot  answer  thee.     I  only  know 
The  Gods  have  sent  me  hither. 


Ask  me  not  ; 


EPIMETHEUS. 

I  believe, 

And  thus  believing  am  most  fortunate. 
It  was  not  Hermes  led  thee  here,  but  Eros, 
And  swifter  than  his  arrows  were  thine  eyes 
In  wounding  me.     There  was  no  moment's  space 
Between  my  seeing  thee  and  loving  thee. 
O,  what  a  tell-tale  face  thou  hast  !     Again 
I  see  the  wonder  in  thy  tender  eyes. 

PANDORA. 

They  do  but  answer  to  the  love  in  thine, 
Yet  secretly  I  wonder  thou  shouldst  love  me, 
Thou  knowest  me  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps  I  know  thee  better 
Than  had  I  known  thee  longer.     Yet  it  seems 
That  I  have  always  known  thee,  and  but  now 
Have  found  thee.     Ah,  I  have  been  waiting  long. 

PANDORA. 

How  beautiful  is  this  house  !     The  atmosphere 
Breathes  rest  and  comfort,  and  the  many  cham 

bers 
Seem  full  of  welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They  not  only  seem,  "" 

But  truly  are.     This'  dwelling  and  its  master 
Belong  to  thee. 

.  PANDORA. 

Here  let  me  stay  forever  ! 
There  is  a  spell  upon  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  thyself 

Art  the  enchantress,  and  1  feel  thy  power 
Envelop  me,  and  wrap  my  soul  and  sense 
In  an  Elysian  dream. 

PANDORA. 

O,  let  me  stay, 

How  beautiful  are  all  things  round  about  me, 
Multiplied  by  the  mirrors  on  the  walls  ! 
What  treasures  hast  thou  here  !  Yon  oaken  chest, 
Carven  with  figures  and  embossed  with  gold, 
Is  wonderful  to  look  upon  !     What  choice 
And  precious  things  dost  thou  keep  hidden  in  it  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I  know  not.     'T  is  a  mystery. 


Lifted  the  lid  ? 


Hast  thou  never 


EPIMETHEUS. 


The  oracle  forbids. 

Safely  concealed  there  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Forever  sleeps  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 
Seek  not   to  know  what  they  have  hidden  from 

thee, 
Till  they  themselves  reveal  it. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


253 


PANDORA. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


As  thou  wilt. 


Let  us  go  forth  from  this  mysterious  place. 
The  garden  walks  are  pleasant  at  this  hour ; 
The  nightingales  among  the  sheltering  boughs 
Of  populous  and  many-nested  trees 
Shall  teach  me  how  to  woo  thee,  and  shall  tell  me 
By  what  resistless  charms  or  incantations 
They  won  their  mates. 

PANDORA. 

Thou  dost  not  need  a  teacher. 
They  (jo  out. 

CHORUS   OF   THE   EUMENIDES. 

What  the  Immortals 
Confide  to  thy  keeping, 
Tell  unto  no  man  ; 
Waking  or  sleeping, 
Closed  be  thy  portals 
To  friend  as  to  foeman. 

Silence  conceals  it ; 
The  word  that  is  spoken 
Betrays  and  reveals  it ; 
By  breath  or  by  token 
The  charm  may  be  broken. 

With  shafts  of  their  splendors 
The  Gods  unforgiving 
Pursue  the  offenders, 
The  dead  and  the  living  ! 
Fortune  forsakes  them, 
Nor  earth  shall  abide  them, 
Nor  Tartarus  hide  them  ; 
Swift  wrath  overtakes  them  ! 

With  useless  endeavor, 

Forever,  forever, 

Is  Sisyphus  rolling 

His  stone  up  the  mountain  ! 

Immersed  in  the  fountain, 

Tantalus  tastes  not 

The  water  that  wastes  not ! 

Through  ages  increasing 

The  pangs  that  afflict  him, 

With  motion  unceasing 

The  wheel  of  Ixion 

Shall  torture  its  victim ! 


VI. 
IN  THE  GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

YON  snow-white  cloud  that  sails  sublime  in  ether 
Is  but  the  sovereign  Zeus,  who  like  a  swan 
Flies  to  fair-ankled  Leda  ! 

PANDORA. 

Or  perchance 

Ixion's  cloud,  the  shadowy  shape  of  Hera, 
That  bore  the  Centaurs. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  divine  and  human. 

CHORUS    OF  BIRDS. 

Gently  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Rocked  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Bright  with  sunshine  from  above 
Dark  with  shadow  from  below, 
Beak  to  beak  and  breast  to  breast 
In  the  cradle  of  their  nest, 
Lie  the  fledglings  of  our  love. 


ECHO. 

Love !  love  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark  !  listen  !     Hear  how  sweetly  overhead 
The  feathered  flute-players  pipe  their  songs  of  love, 
And  echo  answers,  love  and  only  love. 

CHORUS   OF   BIRDS. 

Every  flutter  of  the  wing, 
Every  note  of  song  we  sing, 
Every  murmur,  every  tone, 
Is  of  love  and  love  alone. 

ECHO. 

Love  alone ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who  would  not  love,  if  loving  she  might  be 
Changed  like  Callisto  to  a  star  in  heaven  'i 

PANDORA. 

Ah,  who  would  love,  if  loving  she  might  be 
Like  Semele  consumed  and  burnt  to  ashes  V 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence  knowest  thou  these  stories  ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes  taught  me ; 
He  told  me  all  the  history  of  the  Gods. 

CHORUS  OF  REEDS. 

Evermore  a  sound  shall  be 
In  the  reeds  of  Arcady, 
Evermore  a  low  lament 
Of  unrest  and  discontent, 
As  the  story  is  retold 
Of  the  nymph  so  coy  and  cold, 
Who  with  frightened  feet  outran 
The  pursuing  steps  of  Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  pipe  of  Pan  out  of  these  reeds  is  made, 
And  when  he  plays  upon  it  to  the  shepherds 
They  pity  him,  so  mournful  is  the  sound. 
Be  thou  not  coy  and  cold  as  Syrinx  was. 

PANDORA. 

Nor  thou  as  Pan  be  rude  and  mannerless. 

PROMETHEUS,  IvitllOUt. 

Ho !    Epimetheus  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

'T  is  my  brother's  voice  ; 
A  sound  unwelcome  and  inopportune 
As  was  the  braying  of  Silenus'  ass, 
Heard  in  Cybele's  garden. 


PANDORA. 


I  would  not  be  found  here. 

She  escapes  ainong  the  trees. 

CHORUS   OF   DRYADES. 

Haste  and  hide  thee, 

Ere  too  late, 

In  these  thickets  intricate ; 

Lest  Prometheus 

See  and  chide  thee, 

Lest  some  hurt 

Or  harm  betide  thee, 

Haste  and  hide  thee  ! 


Let  me  go. 
I  would  not  see  him. 


254 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


PROMETHEUS,  entering. 

Who  was  it  fled  from  here  ?    I  saw  a  shape 
Flitting  among  the  trees. 

EPIMETUEUS. 

It  was  Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

0  Epimetheus  !    Is  it  then  in  vain 

That  I  have  warned  thee  ?    Let  me  now  implore. 
Thou  harborest  in  thy  house  a  dangerous  guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  love  they  honor  with  such  guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  would  destroy  they  first  make 
mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Shall  I  refuse  the  gifts  they  send  to  me  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject  all  gifts  that  come  from  higher  powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such  gifts  as  this  are  not  to  be  rejected. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  slave  of  any  woman. 
4 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  judge  of  any  man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

1  judge  thee  not ;  for  thou  art  more  than  man  ; 
Thou  art  descended  from  Titanic  race, 

And  hast  a  Titan's  strength,  and  faculties 
That  make  thee  godlike  ;  and  thou  sittest  here 
Like  Heracles  spinning  Omphale's  flax, 
And  beaten  with  her  sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O  my  brother  ! 
Thou  drivest  me  to  madness  with  thy  taunts. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And  me  thou  drivest  to  madness  with  thy  follies. 

Come  with  me  to  my  tower  on  Caucasus  : 

See  there  my  forges  in  the  roaring  caverns 

Beneficent  to  man,  and  taste  the  joy 

That    springs  from  labor.     Read    with  me    the 

stars, 

And  learn  the  virtues  that  lie  hidden  in  plants, 
And  all  things  that  are  useful. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O  my  brother ! 

I  am  not  as  thou  art.     Thou  dost  inherit 
Our  father's  strength,  and  I  our  mother's  weak 
ness  : 

The  softness  of  the  Oceanides, 
The  yielding  nature  that  cannot  resist. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Because  thou  wilt  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay ;  because  I  cannot. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Assert  thyself ;  rise  up  to  thy  full  height ; 
Shake  from  thy  soul  these  dreams  effeminate, 


These  passions  born  of  indolence  and  ease. 
Resolve,  and  thou  art  free.     But  breathe  the  air 
Of  mountains,  and  their  unapproachable  summits 
Will  lift  thee  to  the  level  of  themselves. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  roar  of  forests  and  of  waterfalls, 
The  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind,  with  loud 
And  undistinguishable  voices  calling, 
Are  in  my  ear  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

O,  listen  and  obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  leadest  me  as  a  child.    I  follow  thee. 
They  go  out. 

CHORUS.  OP   OREADES. 

Centuries  old  are  the  mountains  ; 
Their  foreheads  wrinkled  and  rifted 
Helios  crowns  by  day, 
Pallid  Selene  by  night ; 
From  their  bosoms  uptossed 
The  snows  are  driven  and  drifted, 
Like  Tithonus'  beard 
Streaming  dishevelled  and  white. 

Thunder  and  tempest  of  wind 
Their  trumpets  blow  in  the  vastness ; 
Phantoms  of  mist  and  rain. 
Cloud  and  the  shadow  of  cloud, 
Pass  and  repass  by  the  gates 
Of  their  inaccessible  fastness ; 
Ever  unmoved  they  stand, 
Solemn,  eternal,  and  proud. 

VOICES   OF  THE    WATERS. 

Flooded  by  rain  and  snow 
In  their  inexhaustible  sources, 
Swollen  by  affluent  streams 
Hurrying  onward  and  hurled 
Headlong  over  the  crags, 
The  impetuous  water-courses, 
Rush  and  roar  and  plunge 
Down  to  the  nethermost  world. 

Say,  have  the  solid  rocks 
Into  streams  of  silver  been  melted, 
Flowing  over  the  plains. 
Spreading  to  lakes  in  the  fields  ? 
Or  have  the  mountains,  the  giants, 
The  ice-helmed,  the  forest-belted, 
Scattered  their  arms  abroad  ; 
Flung  in  the  meadows  their  shields  ? 

VOICES   OF   THE    WINDS. 

High  on  their  turreted  cliffs, 

That  bolts  of  thunder  have  shattered, 

Storm-winds  muster  and  blow 

Trumpets  of  terrible  breath  ; 

Then  from  the  gateways  rush, 

And  before  them  routed  and  scattered 

Sullen  the  cloud -rack  flies, 

Pale  with  the  pallor  of  death. 

Onward  the  hurricane  rides, 
And  flee  for  shelter  the  shepherds  ; 
White  are  the  frightened  leaves, 
Harvests  with  terror  are  white  ; 
Panic  seizes  the  herds. 
And  even  the  lions  and  leopards, 
Prowling  no  longer  for  prey, 
Crouch  in  their  caverns  with  fright. 

VOICES   OF  THE  FOREST. 

Guarding  the  mountains  around 
Majestic  the  forests  are  standing. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


255 


Bright  are  their  crested  helms, 
Dark  is  their  armor  of  leaves  ; 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  freedom 
Each  bosom  subsiding,  expanding, 
Now  like  the  ocean  sinks. 
Now  like  the  ocean  upheaves. 

Planted  firm  on  the  rock. 
With  foreheads  stern  and  defiant, 
Loud  they  shout  to  the  winds, 
Loud  to  the  tempest  they  call; 
Naught  but  Olympian  thunders, 
That  blasted  Titan  and  Giant, 
Them  can  uproot  and  o'erthrow. 
Shaking  the  earth  with  their  fall. 

CHORUS    OF   OKEADES. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three 

Of  winds  and  forests  and  fountains, 

Voices  of  earth  and  of  air, 

Murmur  and  rushing  of  streams. 

Making  together  one  sound, 

The  mysterious  voice  of  the  mountains, 

Waking  the  sluggard  that  sleeps, 

Waking  the  dreamer  of  dreams. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three, 
That  speak  of  endless  endeavor, 
Speak  of  endurance  and  strength, 
•Triumph  and  fulness  of  fame. 
Sounding  about  the  world, 
An  inspiration  forever, 
Stirring  the  hearts  of  men, 
Shaping  their  end  and  their  aim. 


VII. 
THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS. 

PANDORA. 

LEFT  to  myself  I  wander  as  I  will. 

And  as  my  fancy  leads  me,  through  this  house, 

Nor  could  I  ask  a  dwelling  more  complete 

Were  I  indeed  the  Goddess  that  he  deems  me. 

No  mansion  of  Olympus,  framed  to  be 

The  habitation  of  the  Immortal  Gods, 

Can  be  more  beautiful.     And  this  is  mine 

And   more   than  this,    the    love    wherewith    he 

crowns  me. 

As  if  impelled  by  powers  invisible 
And  irresistible,  my  steps  return 
Unto  this  spacious  hall.     All  corridors 
And  passages  lead  hither,  and  all  doors 
But  open  into  it.     Yon  mysterious  chest 
Attracts  and  fascinates  me.     Would  I  knew 
What  there  lies  hidden  !     But  the  oracle 
Forbids.     Ah  me  !     The  secret  then  is  safe. 
So  would  it  be  if  it  were  in  my  keeping. 
A  crowd  of  shadowy  faces  from  the  mirrors 
That  line   these  walls  are  watching  ine.     I  dare 

not 

Lift  up  the  lid.     A  hundred  times  the  act 
Would  be  repeated,  and  the  secret  seen 
By  twice  a  hundred  incorporeal  eyes. 

She  walks  to  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 

My  feet  are  weary,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
My  eyes  with  seeing  and  my  heart  with  waiting. 
I  will  lie  here  and  rest  till  he  returns, 
Who  is  my  dawn,  my  day,  my  Helios. 

Throws  herself  upon  a  couch,  and  falls  asleep. 

ZEPHYRUS. 

Come  from  thy  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
O  son  of  Erebus  and  Night ; 
All  sense  of  hearing  and  of  sight 
Enfold  in  the  serene  delight 
And  quietude  of  sleep ! 


Set  all  thy  silent  sentinels 
To  bar  and  guard  the  Ivory  Gate, 
And  keep  the  evil  dreams  of  fate 
And  falsehood  and  infernal  hate 
Imprisoned  in  their  cells. 

But  open  wide  the  Gate  of  Horn, 
Whence,  beautiful  as  planets,  rise 
The  dreams  of  truth,  with  starry  eyes, 
And  all  the  wondrous  prophecies 
And  visions  of  the  morn. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  IVORY  GATE. 

Ye  sentinels  of  sleep, 

It  is  in  vain  ye  keep 
Your  drowsy  watch  before  the  Ivory  Gate  : 

Though  closed  the  portal  seems, 

The  airy  feet  of  dreams 
Ye  cannot  thus  in  walls  incarcerate. 

We  phantoms  are  and  dreams 

Born  by  Tartarean  streams, 
As  ministers  of  the  infernal  powers  ; 

O  son  of  Erebus 

And  Night,  behold  !  we  thus 
Elude  your  watchful  wardens  on  the  towers  ! 

From  gloomy  Tartarus 

The  Fates  have  summoned  us 
To  whisper  in  her  ear,  who  lies  asleep, 

A  tale  to  fan  the  fire 

Of  her  insane  desire 
To  know  a  secret  that  the  Gods  would  keep. 

This  passion,  in  their  ire, 

The  Gods  themselves  inspire, 
To  vex  mankind  with  evils  manifold, 

So  that  disease  and  pain 

O'er  the  whole  earth  may  reign. 
And  nevermore  return  the  Age  of  Gold. 

PANDORA,  waking. 

A  voice  said  in  my  sleep  :   '•  Do  not  delay  : 
Do  not  delay  ;  the  golden  moments  fly  ! 
The  oracle  hatli  forbidden  ;  yet  not  thee 
Doth  it  forbid,  but  Epimetheus  only  !  " 
I  am  alone.     These  faces  in  the  mirrors 
Are  but  the  shadows  and  phantoms  of  myself ; 
They  cannot  help  nor  hinder.     No  one  sees  me, 
Save  the  all-seeing  Gods,  who,  knowing  good 
And  knowing  evil,  have  created  me 
Such  as  I  am,  and  filled  me  with  desire 
Of  knowing  good  and  evil  like  themselves. 

She  approaches  the  chest. 

I  hesitate  no  longer.     Weal  or  woe, 

Or  life  or  death,  the  moment  shall  decide. 

She  lifts  the  lid.  A  dense  mist  rise*  from  the  chest 
and  fills  the  room.  Pandora  falls  sctiseless  on 
the  floor.  Storm  without. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  GATE  OF  HORN 

Yes,  the  moment  shall  decide  ! 
It  already  hatli  decided  ; 
And  the  secret  once  confided 
To  the  keeping  of  the  Titan 
Now  is  flying  far  and  wide. 
Whispered,  told  on  every  side, 
To  disquiet  and  to  frighten. 

Fever  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
Sorrow,  pestilence,  and  pain, 
Moans  of  anguish,  maniac  laughter, 
All  the  evils  that  hereafter 
Shall  afflict  and  vex  mankind, 
All  into  the  air  have  risen 
From  the  chambers  of  their  prison  ; 
Only  Hope  remains  behind. 


356 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


VIII. 
IN  THE  GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

THE  storm  is  past,  but  it  hath  left  behind  it 

Ruin  and  desolation.     All  the  walks 

Are  strewn  with  shattered  boughs  ;  the  birds  are 

silent ; 

The  flowers,  downtrodden  by  the  wind,  lie  dead  ; 
The  swollen  rivulet  sobs  with  secret  pain ; 
The  melancholy  reeds  whisper  together 
As  if  some  dreadful  deed  had  been  committed 
They  dare  not  name,  and  all  the  air  is  heavy 
With  an  unspoken  sorrow  !     Premonitions, 
Foreshadowings  of  some  terrible  disaster 
Oppress  my  heart.     Ye  Gods,  avert  the  omen  ! 

PANDORA,  coming  from  the  house. 

0  Epimetheus,  I  no  longer  dare 

To  lift  mine  eyes  to  thine,  nor  hear  thy  voice, 

Being  no  longer  worthy  of  thy  love. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 


Forgive  me  not,  but  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 


I  pray  for  death,  not  pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

I  dare  not  speak  of  it. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy  pallor  and  thy  silence  terrify  me  ! 

PANDORA. 

I  have  brought  wrath  and  ruin  on  thy  house  ! 
My  heart  hath  braved  the  oracle  that  guarded 
The  fatal  secret  from  us,  and  my  hand 
Lifted  the  lid  of  the  mysterious  chest ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Then  all  is  lost !    I  am  indeed  undone. 

PANDOBA. 

I  pray  for  punishment,  and  not  for  pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine  is  the  fault,  not  thine.     On  me  shall  fall 

The  vengeance  of  the  Gods,  for  I  betrayed 

Their  secret  when,  in  evil  hour,  I  said 

It  was  a  secret ;  when,  in  evil  hour, 

I  left  thee  here  alone  to  this  temptation. 

Why  did  I  leave  thee  ? 

PANDORA. 

Why  didst  thou  return  ? 
Eternal  absence  would  have  been  to  me 
The  greatest  punishment.     To  be  left  alone 
And  face  to  face  with  my  own  crime,  had  been 
Just  retribution.     Upon  me,  ye  Gods, 
Let  all  your  vengeance  fall ! 


EPIMETHEUS. 

On  thee  and  me. 

I  do  not  love  thee  less  for  what  is  done, 
And  cannot  be  undone.     Thy  very  weakness 
Hath  brought  thee  nearer  to  me,  and  henceforth 
My  love  will  have  a  sense  of  pity  in  it, 
Making  it  less  a  worship  than  before. 


Pity  me  not ;  pity  is  degradation. 
Love  me  and  kill  me. 


EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful  Pandora ! 
Thou  art  a  Goddess  still ! 

PANDORA., 

I  am  a  woman ; 

And  the  insurgent  demon  in  my  nature, 
That  made  me  brave  the  oracle,  revolts 
At  pity  and  compassion.     Let  me  die  ; 
What  else  remains  for  me  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth,  hope,  and  love  : 
To  build  a  new  life  on  a  ruined  life, 
To  make  the  future  fairer  than  the  past, 
And  make  the  past  appear  a  troubled  dream. 
Even  now  in  passing  through  the  garden  walks 
Upon  the  ground  I  saw  a  fallen  nest 
Ruined  and  full  of  rain  ;  and  over  me 
Beheld  the  uncomplaining  birds  already 
Busy  in  building  a  new  habitation. 


Auspicious  omen ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

May  the  Eumenides 

Put  out  their  torches  and  behold  us  not, 
And  fling  away  their  whips  of  scorpions 
And  touch  us  not. 


Me  let  them  punish. 

Only  through  punishment  of  our  evil  deeds. 
Only  through  suffering,  are  we  reconciled 
To  the  immortal  Gods  and  to  ourselves. 


CHORUS   OF   THE    EUMENIDES. 

Never  shall  souls  like  these 

Escape  the  Eumenides, 
The  daughters  dark  of  Acheron  and  Night ! 

Unquenched  our  torches  glare, 

Our  scourges  in  the  air 
Send  forth  prophetic  sounds  before  they  smite. 

Never  by  lapse  of  time 

The  soul  defaced  by  crime 
Into  its  former  self  returns  again  •, 

For  every  guilty  deed 

Holds  in  itself  the  seed 
Of  retribution  and  undying  pain. 

Never  shall  be  the  loss 

Restored,  till  Helios 
Hath  purified  them  with  his  heavenly  fires ; 

Then  what  was  lost  is  won, 

And  the  new  life  begun, 
Kindled  with  nobler  passions  and  desires. 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


The}'  entertain 
A  little  angel  unaware. 


THE   HAJS"GIE"G  OF  THE   CRAXE. 


i. 

THE  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the  guests 
That  thronging  came  with  merriment  and  jests 

To  celebrate  the  Hanging  of  the  Crane 
In  the  new  house, — into  the  night  are  gone  ; 
But  still  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  burns  on, 
And  I  alone  remain. 


O  fortunate,  O  happy  day, 
When  a  new  household  finds  its  place 
Among  the  myriad  homes  of  earth, 
Like  anew  star  just  sprung  to  birth, 
And  rolled  on  its  harmonious  way 
Into  the  boundless  realms  of  space  ! 
So  said  the  guests  in  speech  and  son?. 
As  in  the  chimney,  burning  bright. 
We  hung  the  iron  crane  to-night, 
And  merry  was  the  feast  and  long. 


II 

AND  now  I  sit  and  muse  on  what  may  be, 
And  in  my  vision  see,  or  seem  to  see, 

Through  floating  vapors  interfused  with  light, 
Shapes  indeterminate,  that  gleam  and  fade, 
As  shadows  passing  into  deeper  shade 
Sink  and  elude  the  sight. 

For  two  alone,  there  in  the  hall, 

Is  spread  the  table  round  and  small ; 

Upon  the  polished  silver  shine 

The  evening  lamps,  but,  more  divine, 

The  light  of  love  shines  over  all ; 

Of  love,  that  says  not  mine  and  thine, 

But  ours,  for  ours  is  thine  and  mine. 

They  want  no  guests,  to  come  between 

Their  tender  glances  like  a  screen, 

And  tell  them  tales  of  land  and  sea, 

17 


And  whatsoever  may  betide 
The  great,  forgotten  world  outside  ; 
They  want  no  guests  ;  they  needs  must  be 
Each  other's  own  best  company. 


III. 

THE  picture  fades  ;  as  at  a  village  fair 
A  showman's  views,  dissolving  into  air, 

Again  appear  transfigured  on  the  screen, 
So  in  my  fancy  this ;  and  now  once  more, 
In  part  transfigured,  through  the  open  door 
Appears  the  selfsame  scene. 

Seated,  I  see  the  two  again, 
But  not  alone  ;  they  entertain 
A  little  angel  unaware, 
With  face  as  round  as  is  the  moon  ; 
A  royal  guest  with  flaxen  hair, 
Who,  throned  upon  his  lofty  chair, 
Drums  on  the  table  with  his  spoon, 
Then  drops  it  careless  on  the  floor, 
To  grasp  at  things  unseen  before. 

Are  these  celestial  manners  ''.  these 
The  ways  that  win,  the  arts  that  please  ' 
Ah  yes  ;  consider  well  the  guest, 
And  whatsoe'er  he  does  seems  best ; 
He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 
Of  helplessness,  so  lately  born 
In  purple  chambers  of  the  morn, 
As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine. 
He  speaketh  not ;  and  yet  there  lies 
A  conversation  in  his  eyes  ; 
The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek, 
The  gravest  wisdom  of  the  wise, 
'    Not  spoken  in  language,  but  in  looks 
More  legible  than  printed  books, 
As  if  he  could  but  would  not  speak. 
And  now,  O  monarch  absolute, 


258 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


Thy  power  is  put  to  proof  ;  for,  lo  ! 
Resistless,  fathomless,  and  slow, 
The  nurse  comes  rustling  like  the  sea, 
And  pushes  back  thy  chair  and  thee, 
And  so  good  night  to  King  Canute. 


IV. 

As  one  who  walking  in  a  forest  sees 

A  lovely  landscape  through  the  parted  trees, 

Then  sees  it  not,  for  boughs  that  intervene ; 
Or  as  we  see  the  moon  sometimes  revealed 
Through  drifting  clouds,  and  then  again  concealed, 
So  I  behold  the  scene. 

There  are  two  guests  at  table  now  ; 
The  king,  deposed  and  older  grown, 
No  longer  occupies  the  throne, — 
The  crown  is  on  his  sister's  brow  ; 
A  Princess  from  the  Fairy  Isles, 
The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls, 
All  covered  and  embowered  in  curls, 
Rose-tinted  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers, 
And  sailing  with  soft,  silken  sails 
From  far-off  Dreamland  into  ours. 
Above  their  bowls  with  rims  of  blue 
Four  azure  eyes  of  deeper  hue 
Are  looking,  dreamy  with  delight ; 
Limpid  as  planets  that  emerge 
Above  the  ocean's  rounded  verge, 
Soft-shining  through  the  summer  night. 
Steadfast  they  gaze,  yet  nothing  see 
Beyond  the  horizon  of  their  bowls  ; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  world  that  rolls 
With  all  its  freight  of  troubled  souls 
Into  the  days  that  are  to  be. 


V. 

AGAIN  the  tossing  boughs  shut  out  the  scene, 
Again  the  drifting  vapors  intervene. 

And  the  moon's  pallid  disk  is  hidden  quite  ; 
And  now  I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 
As  round  a  pebble  into  water  thrown 
Dilates  a  ring  of  light. 

I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 

I  see  it  garlanded  with  guests, 

As  if  fair  Ariadne's  Crown 

Out  of  the  sky  had  fallen  down ; 

Maidens  within  whose  tender  breasts 

A  thousand  restless  hopes  and  fears, 

Forth  reaching  to  the  coming  years, 

Flutter  awhile,  then  quiet  lie, 

Like  timid  birds  that  fain  would  fly, 

But  do  not  dare  to  leave  their  nests ; — 

And  youths,  who  in  their  strength  elate 

Challenge  the  van  and  front  of  fate 

Eager  as  champions  to  be 

In  the  divine  knight-errantry 

Of  youth,  that  travels  sea  and  land 

Seeking  adventures,  or  pursues, 

Through  cities,  and  through  solitudes 

Frequented  by  the  lyric  Muse, 

The  phantom  with  the  beckoning  hand, 

That  still  allures  and  still  eludes. 

O  sweet  illusions  of  the  brain  ! 

O  sudden  thrills  of  fire  and  frost  ! 

The  world  is  bright  while  ye  remain, 

And  dark  and  dead  when  ye  are  lost ! 

VI. 

THE  meadow-brook,  that  seemeth  to  stand  still, 
Quickens  its  current  as  it  nears  the  mill ; 


And  so  the  stream  of  Time  that  lingereth 
In  level  places,  and  so  dull  appears, 
Runs  with  a  swifter  current  as  it  nears 
The  gloomy  mills  of  Death. 

And  now,  like  the  magician's  scroll, 

That  in  the  owner's  keeping  shrinks 

With  every  wish  he  speaks  or  thinks, 

Till  the  last  wish  consumes  the  whole, 

The  table  dwindles,  and  again 

I  see  the  two  alone  remain. 

The  crown  of  stars  is  broken  in  parts ; 

Its  jewels,  brighter  than  the  day, 

Have  one  by  one  been  stolen  away 

To  shine  in  other  homes  and  hearts. 

One  is  a  wanderer  now  afar 

In  Ceylon  or  in  Zanzibar, 

Or  sunny  regions  of  Cathay ; 

And  one  is  in  the  boisterous  camp 

Mid  clink  of  arms  and  horses'  tramp, 

And  battle's  terrible  array. 

I  see  the  patient  mother  read, 

With  aching  heart,  of  wrecks  that  float 

Disabled  on  those  seas  remote, 

Or  of  some  great  heroic  deed 

On  battle-fields,  were  thousands  bleed 

To  lift  one  hero  into  fame. 

Anxious  she  bends  her  graceful  head 

Above  these  chronicles  of  pain, 

And  trembles  with  a  secret  dread 

Lest  there  among  the  drowned  or  slain 

She  find  the  one  beloved  name. 


VII. 

AFTER  a  day  of  cloud  and  wind  and  rain 
Sometimes  the  setting  sun  breaks  out  again, 
And,   touching   all  the  darksome  woods  with 

light, 

Smiles  on  the  fields,  until  they  laugh  and  sing, 
Then  like  a  ruby  from  the  horizon's  ring 
Drops  down  into  the  night. 

What  see  I  now  ?    The  night  is  fair, 
The  storm  of  grief,  the  clouds  of  care, 
The  wind,  the  rain,  have  passed  away ; 
The  lamps  are  lit,  the  fires  burn  bright, 
The  house  is  full  of  life  and  light: 
It  is  the  Golden  Wedding  day. 
The  guests  come  thronging  in  once  more, 
Quick  footsteps  sound  along  the  floor, 
The  trooping  children  crowd  the  stair, 
And  in  and  out  and  everywhere 
Flashes  along  the  corridor 
The  sunshine  of  their  golden  hair. 

On  the  round  table  in  the  hall 
Another  Ariadne's  Crown 
Out  of  the  sky  hath  fallen  down  ; 
More  than  one  Monarch  of  the  Moon 
Is  drumming  with  his  silver  spoon  ; 
The  light  of  love  shines  over  all. 

O  fortunate,  O  happy  day  ! 

The  people  sing,  the  people  say. 

The  ancient  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Smiling  contented  and  serene 

Upon  the  blithe,  bewildering  scene, 

Behold,  well-pleased,  on  every  side 

Their  forms  and  features  multiplied, 

As  the  reflection  of  a  light 

Between  two  burnished  mirrors  gleams, 

Or  lamps  upon  a  bridge  at  night 

Stretch  on  and  on  before  the  sight, 

Till  the  long  vista  endless  seems. 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 


259 


MORITURI    SALUTAMUS. 
POEM 

FOR  THE  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  CLASS 
OF  1825  IN  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE. 

Tempera  labuntur,  tacitisqne  senesciinns  annis, 
Et  fugiunt  freno  non  remorante  dies. 

OVID,  Faatorum  Lib.  vi. 


"  O  CAESAR,  we  who  are. about  to  die 
Salute  you  !"  was  the  gladiators'  cry 
In  the  arena,  standing  face  to  face 
With  death  and  with  the  Roman  populace. 

O  ye  familiar  scenes, — ye  groves  of  pine, 
That  once  were  mine  and  are  no  longer  mine, — 
Thou  river,  widening  through  the  meadows  green 
To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen, — 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 
And  vanished, — we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you  ;  earth  and  air  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  Imperial  Sun  that  scatters  down 
His  sovereign  splendors  upon  grove  and  town. 

Ye  do  not  answer  us  !  ye  do  not  hear  ! 
We  are  forgotten ;  and  in  your  austere 
And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 
Whether  we  come  or  go,  or  whence  or  where. 
What  passing  generations  fill  these  halls, 
What  passing  voices  echo  from  these  walls, 
Ye  heed  not ;  we  are  only  as  the  blast, 
A  moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 

Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's  maze ; 

They  answer  us — -alas  !    what  have  I  said  ''. 

What  greetings  come  there  from  the  voiceless  dead  ? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply  ? 

What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  lifeless  lie  ? 

They  are  no  longer  here ;  they  all  are  gone 

Into  the  land  of  shallows, — all  save  one. 

Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute 
That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 

His  dreadful  journey  to  the  realms  of  shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his  youth, 

And  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth  : 

''  O,  never  from  the  memory  of  my  heart 

Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 

Who  while  on  earth,  ere  yet  by  death  surprised, 

Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortalized  ; 

How  grateful  am  I  for  that  patient  care 

All  my  life  long  my  language  shall  declare. " 

To-day  we  make  the  poet's  words  our  own, 

And  utter  them  in  plaintive  undertone  ; 

Nor  to  the  living  only  be  they  said, 

But  to  the  other  living  called  the  dead, 

Whose  dear,  paternal  images  appear 

Not  wrapped  in   gloom,  but  robed   in  sunshine 

here ; 

Whose  simple  lives,  complete  and  without  flaw, 
Were  part  and  parcel  of  great  Nature's  law  ; 
Who  said  not  to  their  Lord,  as  if  afraid, 
"  Here  is  thy  talent  in  a  napkin  laid," 
But  labored  in  their  sphere,  as  men  who  live 
In  the  delight  that  work  alone  can  give. 
Peace  be  to  them ;  eternal  peace  and  rest, 
Arid  the  fulfilment  of  the  great  behest : 
"  Ye  have  been  faithful  over  a  few  things, 
Over  ten  cities  shall  ye  reign  as  kings," 


And  ye  who  fill  the  places  we  once  filled, 
And  follow  in  the  furrows  that  we  tilled, 
Young  men,  whose  generous  hearts  are  beating 

high, 

We  who  are  old,  and  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you  ;  hail  you  ;  take  your  hands  in  ours, 
And    crown    you    with    our    welcome    as    with 

flowers  ! 

How  beautiful  is  youth  !  how  bright  it  gleams 
With  its  illusions,  aspirations,  dreams  ! 
Book  of  Beginnings,  Story  without  End, 
Each  maid  a  heroine,  and  each  man  a  friend  ! 
Aladdin's  Lamp,  and  Fortunatus'  Purse, 
That  holds  the  treasures  of  the  universe  ! 
All  possibilities  are  in  its  hands, 
No  danger  daunts  it,  and  no  foe  withstands  ; 
In  its  sublime  audacity  of  faith, 
"  Be  thou  removed  !  "  it  to  the  mountain  saith. 
And  with  ambitious  feet,  secure  and  proud, 
Ascends  the  ladder  leaning  on  the  cloud  ! 

As  ancient  Priam  at  the  Scsean  gate 

Sat  on  the  walls  of  Troy  in  regal  state 

With  the  old  men,  too  old  and  weak  to  fight, 

Chirping  like  grasshoppers  in  their  delight 

To    see    the   embattled    hosts,    with    spear   and 

shield, 

Of  Trojans  and  Achaians  in  the  field  ; 
So  from  the  snowy  summits  of  our  years 
We  see  you  in  the  plain,  as  each  appears, 
And  question  of  you  ;  asking,  "  Who  is  he 
That  towers  above  the  others  V     Which  may  be 
Atreides,  Menelaus,  Odysseus, 
Ajax  the  great,  or  bold  Idomeneus  ?  " 

Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor  on 
As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done. 
Study  yourselves  ;  and  most  of  all  note  well 
Wherein  kind  Nature  meant  you  to  excel. 
Not  every  blossom  ripens  into  fruit ; 
Minerva,  the  inventress  of  the  flute, 
Flung  it  aside,  when  she  her  face  surveyed. 
Distorted  in  a  fountain  as  she  played  ; 
The  unlucky  Marsyas  found  it,  and  his  fate 
Was  one  to' make  the  bravest  hesitate. 

Write  on  your  doors  the  saying  wise  and  old, 
"Be   bold!    be   bold!"   and    everywhere — "Be 
bold  ; 


And  now.  my  classmates  ;  ye  remaining  few 
That  number  not  the  half  of  those  we  knew, 
Ye,  against  whose  familiar  names  not  yet 
The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set, 
Ye  I  salute  !     The  horologe  of  Time 
Strikes  the  half-century  with  a  solemn  chime, 
And  summons  us  together  once  again, 
The  joy  of  meeting  not  unmixed  with  pain. 

Where  are  the  others  ?     Voices  from  the  deep 
Caverns  of  darkness  answer  me:   "  They  sleep  !  " 


360 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 


I  name  no  names ;  instinctively  I  feel 

Each  at  some  well-remembered  grave  will  kneel, 

And  from  the  inscription  wipe  the  weeds  and 

moss, 
For  every  heart  best  knoweth  its  own  loss. 

I  see  their  scattered  gravestones  gleaming  white 
Through  the  pale  dusk  of  the  impending  night ; 
O'er  all  alike  the  impartial  sunset  throws 
Its  golden  lilies  mingled  with  the  rose ; 
We  give  to  each  a  tender  thought,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  graveyards  with  their  tangled  grass, 
Unto  these  scenes  frequented  by  our  feet 
When  we  were  young,    and  life  was  fresh  and 
sweet. 

What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?    What  can  I  say 
Better  than  silence  is  ?    When  I  survey 
This  throng  of  faces  turned  to  meet  my  own, 
Friendly  and  fair,  and  yet  to  me  unknown, 
Transformed  the  very  landscape  seems  to  be; 
It  is  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  to  me. 
So  many  memories  crowd  upon  my  brain, 
So  many  ghosts  are  in  the  wooded  plain, 
I  fain  would  steal  away,  with  noiseless  tread, 
As  from  a  house  where  some  one  lieth  dead. 

I  cannot  go  ; — I  pause ; — I  hesitate  ; 
My  feet  reluctant  linger  at  the  gate  ; 
As  one  who  struggles  in  a  troubled  dream 
To  speak  and  cannot,  to  myself  I  seem. 

Vanish  the  dream  !     Vanish  the  idle  fears  ! 
Vanish  the  rolling  mists  of  fifty  years  ! 
Whatever  time  or  space  may  intervene, 
I  will  not  be  a  stranger  in  this  scene. 
Here  every  doubt,  all  indecision  ends ; 
Hail,     my    companions,    comrades,     classmates, 
friends  ! 

Ah  me  !  the  fifty  years  since  last  we  met 
Seem  to  me  fifty  folios  bound  and  set 
By  Time,  the  great  transcriber,  on  his  shelves, 
Wherein  are  written  the  histories  of  ourselves. 
What  tragedies,  what  comedies,  are  there  ; 
What  joy  and  grief,  what  rapture  and  despair  ! 
What  chronicles  of  triumph  and  defeat, 
Of  struggle,  and  temptation,  and  retreat ! 
What  records  of  regrets,  and  doubts,  and  fears  ! 
What  pages  blotted,  blistered  by  our  tears  ' 
What  lovely  landscapes  on  the  margin  shine, 
What  sweet,  angelic  faces,  what  divine 
And  holy  images  of  love  and  trust, 
Undimnied  by  age,  unsoiled  by  damp  or  dust ! 

Whose  hand  shall  dare  to  open  and  explore 
These  volumes,  closed  and  clasped  forevermore  ? 
Not  mine.     With  reverential  feet  I  pass ; 
I  hear  a  voice  that  cries,  "  Alas  !  alas  ! 
Whatever  hath  been  written  shall  remain, 
Nor  be  erased  nor  written  o'er  again  ; 
The  unwritten  only  still  belongs  to  thee : 
Take  heed,  and  ponder  well  what  that  shall  be." 

As  children  frightened  by  a  thunder-cloud 

Are  reassured  if  some  one  reads  aloud 

A  tale  of  wonder,  with  enchantment  fraught, 

Or  wild  adventure,  that  diverts  their  thought, 

Let  me  endeavor  with  a  tale  to  chase 

The  gathering  shadows  of  the  time  and  place. 

And  banish  what  we  all  too  deeply  feel 

Wholly  to  say,  or  wholly  to  conceal. 

In  mediaeval  Rome,  I  know  not  where, 

There  stood  an  image  with  its  arm  in  air, 

And  on  its  lifted  finger,  shining  clear, 

A  golden  ring  with  the  device,  "Strike  here  !  " 

Greatly  the  people  wondered,  though  none  guessed 

The  meaning  that  these  words  but  half  expressed, 

Until  a  learned  clerk,  who  at  noonday 

With  downcast  eyes  was  passing  on  his  way, 


Paused  and  observed  the  spot,  and  marked  it  well, 

Whereon  the  shadow  of  the  finger  fell ; 

And,  coming  back  at  midnight,  delved,  and  found 

A  secret  stairway  leading  under  ground. 

Down  this  he  passed  into  a  spacious  hall, 

Lit  by  a  flaming  jewel  on  the  wall ; 

And  opposite  in  threatening  attitude 

With  bow  and  shaft  a  brazen  statue  stood. 

Upon  its  forehead,  like  a  coronet, 

Were  these  mysterious  words  of  menace  set : 

"  That  whicn  I  am,  I  am  ;  my  fatal  aim 

None  can  escape,  not  even  yon  luminous  flame  !  " 

Midway  the  hall  was  a  fair  table  placed, 
With  cloth  of  gold,  and  golden  cups  enchased 
With  rubies,  and  the  plates  and  knives  were  gold, 
And  gold  the  bread  and  viands  manifold. 
Around  it,  silent,  motionless,  and  sad, 
Were  seated  gallant  knights  in  armor  clad, 
And  ladies  beautiful  with  plume  and  zone, 
But  they   were  stone,  their  hearts  within  were 

stone ; 

And  the  vast  hall  was  filled  in  every  part 
With  silent  crowds,  stony  in  face  and  heart. 

Long  at  the  scene,  bewildered  and  amazed 
The  trembling  clerk  in  speechless  wonder  gazed ; 
Then  from  the  table,  by  his  greed  made  bold, 
He  seized  a  goblet  and  a  knife  of  gold, 
And  suddenly  from   their  seats   the   guests  up- 

sprang, 

The  vaulted  ceiling  with  loud  clamors  rang, 
The  archer  sped  his  arrow,  at  their  call, 
Shattering  the  lambent  jewel  on  the  wall, 
And  all  was  dark  around  and  overhead  ; — 
Stark  on  the  floor  the  luckless  clerk  lay  dead ! 

The  writer  of  this  legend  then  records 

Its  ghostly  application  in  these  words  : 

The  image  is  the  Adversary  old, 

Whose  beckoning  finger  points  to  realms  of  gold ; 

Our  lusts  and  passions  are  the  downward  stair 

That  leads  the  soul  from  a  diviner  air ; 

The  archer,  Death  ;  the  flaming  jewel,  Life ; 

Terrestrial  goods,  the  goblet  and  the  knife ; 

The  knights  and  ladies,  all  whose  flesh  and  bone 

By  avarice  have  been  hardened  into  stone  ; 

The  clerk,  the  scholar  whom  the  love  of  pelf 

Tempts  from  his  books  and  from  his  nobler  self. 

The  scholar  and  the  world  !     The  endless  strife, 

The  discord  in  the  harmonies  of  life  ! 

The  love  of  learning,  the  sequestered  nooks, 

And  all  the  sweet  serenity  of  books  ; 

The  market-place,  the  eager  love  of  gain, 

Whose  aim  is  vanity,  and  whose  end  is  pain  ! 

But  why,  you  ask  me,  should  this  tale  be  told 
To  men  grown  old,  or  who  are  growing  old  ? 
It  is  too  late  !   Ah,  nothing  is  too  late 
Till  the  tired  heart  shall  cease  to  palpitate. 
Cato  learned  Greek  at  eighty  ;  Sophocles 
Wrote  his  grand  CEdipus,  and  Simonides 
Bore  off  the  prize  of  verse  from  his  compeers 
When  each   had   numbered  more  than  fourscore 

years. 

And  Theophrastus,  at  fourscore  and  ten, 
Had  but  begun  his  Characters  of  Men. 
Chaucer,  at  Woodstock  with  the  nightingales, 
At  sixty  wrote  the  Canterbury  Tales  ; 
Goethe  at  Weimar,  toiling  to  the  last, 
'Completed  Faust  when  eighty  years  were  past. 
These  are  indeed  exceptions  ;  but  they  show 
How  far  the  gulf-stream  of  our  youth  may  flow 
Into  the  arctic  regions  of  our  lives, 
\  Where  little  else  than  life  itself  survives. 

As  the  barometer  foretells  the  storm 
:  While  still  the  skies  are  clear,  the  weather  warm, 
I  So  something  in  us,  as  old  age  draws  near, 
:  Betrays  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere. 


CHARLES  SUMNER.— CADENABBIA. 


261 


The  nimble  mercury,  ere  we  are  aware, 
Descends  the  elastic  ladder  of  the  air  ; 
The  telltale  blood  in  artery  and  vein 
Sinks  from  its  higher  levels  in  the  brain  ; 
Whatever  poet,  orator,  or  sage 
May  say  of  it,  old  age  is  still  old  age. 
It  is  the  waning,  not  the  crescent  moon, 
The  dusk  of  evening,  not  the  blaze  of  noon  : 
It  is  not  strength,  but  weakness ;  not  desire, 
But  its  surcease ;  not  the  fierce  heat  of  fire, 
The  burning  and  consuming  element, 
But  that  of  ashes  and  of  embers  spent, 
In  which  some  living  sparks  we  still  discern, 
Enough  to  warm,  but  not  enough  to  burn. 


What  then  V     Shall  we  sit  idly  down  and  say 
The  night  hath  come ;  it  is  no  longer  day  ? 
The  night  hath  not  yet  come  ;  we  are  not  quite 
C  ut  oft  from  labor  by  the  failing  light ; 
Something  remains  for  us  to  do  or  dare  ; 
Even  the  oldest  tree  some  fruit  may  bear ; 
Not  (Edipus  Coloneus,  or  Greek  Ode, 
Or  tales  of  pilgrims  that  one  morning  rode 
Out  of  the  gateway  of  the  Tabard  Inn, 
But  other  something,  would  we  but  begin  ; 
For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 
Than  youth  itself,  though  in  another  dress, 
And  as  the  evening  twilight  fades  away 
The  sky  is  filled  with  stars,  invisible  by  day. 


BIKDS    OF  PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT   THE  FOURTH. 


CHARLES  SUMNER. 

GARLANDS  upon  his  grave, 
And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 
And  to  the  tender  heart  and  brave 
The  tribute  of  this  verse. 

His  was  the  troubled  life, 
The  conflict  and  the  pain, 
The  grief,  the  bitterness  of  strife. 
The  honor  without  stain. 

Like  Winkelried,  he  took 
Into  his  manly  breast 
The  sheaf  of  hostile  spears,  and  broke 
A  path  for  the  oppressed. 

Then  from  the  fatal  field 
Upon  a  nation's  heart 
Borne  like  a  warrior  on  his  shield  !  — 
So  should  the  brave  depart. 

Death  takes  us  by  surprise, 
And  stays  our  hurrying  feet ; 
The  great  design  unfinished  lies, 
Our  lives  are  incomplete. 

But  in  the  dark  unknown 
Perfect  their  circles  seem, 
Even  as  a  bridge's  arch  of  stone 
Is  rounded  in  the  stream. 

Alike  are  life  and  death, 
When  life  in  death  survives, 
And  the  uninterrupted  breath 
Inspires  a  thousand  lives 

Were  a  star  quenched  on  high, 
For  ages  would  its  light, 
Still  travelling  downward  from  the  sky, 
Shine  on  our  mortal  sight. 

So  when  a  great  man  dies, 
For  years  beyond  our  ken, 
The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men. 


TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

THE  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast, 

And  yonder  gilded  vane, 
Immovable  for  three  days  past, 

Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  drives  me  in  upon  myself 
And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 


To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf, 
And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 

I  read  whatever  bards  have  sung 

Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  the  bright  days  when  I  was  young 

Come  thronging  back  to  me. 

In  fancy  I  can  hear  again 

The  Alpine  torrent's  roar, 
The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 

The  sea  at  Elsinore. 

I  see  the  convent's  gleaming  wall 
Rise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 

And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 
And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

I  journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 

Beneath  centennial  trees, 
Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fire, 

And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 

I  fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I  feel  fatigue. 
While  journeying  with  another's  feet 

O'er  many  a  lengthening  league. 

Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land, 
And  toil  through  various  climes, 

I  turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand 
Reading  these  poets'  rhymes. 

From  them  I  learn  whatever  lies 
Beneath  each  changing  zone, 

And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 
Better  than  with  mine  own. 


CADENABBIA. 

LAKE    OF    COMO. 

No  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 

As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I  while  the  idle  hours  away. 

I  pace  the  leafy  colonnade 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 

Above  me  weave  a  roof  of  shade 
Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 

At  times  a  sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o'erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I  tread. 


MONTE  CASSINO.— AMALFI. 


By  Somariva's  garden  gate 

I  make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 

And  hear  the  water,  as  I  wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 

Along  the  stony  parapets, 
And  far  away  the  floating  bells 

Tinkle  upon  the  fisher's  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 

Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 

Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
Bellaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a  tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 

Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Varenna  with  its  white  cascade. 

I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream  ? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  ? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 

Sweet  vision  !     Do  not  fade  away ; 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 
Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 
And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 


MONTE  CASSINO. 

TERRA  DI   LAVORO. 

BEAUTIFUL  valley  !  through  whose  verdant  meads 
Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along; — 

The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 
The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's  crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 
Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his  throne  ; 

Sciara  Colonna,  was  that  day's  disgrace 
The  Pontiffs  only,  or  in  part  thine  own  ? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a  renegade 
Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante  saith, 

When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms  betrayed 
Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town, 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid  light 

Still  hovers  o'er  his  birthplace  like  the  crown 
Of  splendor  seen  o'er  cities  in  the  night. 

Doubled  the  splendor  is,  that  in  its  streets 
The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a  school-boy  played, 

And  dreamed  perhaps  the  dreams,  that  he  repeats 
In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a  passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a  mountain  summit  high, 

Monte  Cassino's  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 

Well  I  remember  how  on  foot  I  climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate  ; 


Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers  chimed, 
Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  desolate. 

Well  I  remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 

The  courtyard  with  its  well,  the  terrace  wide, 

From  which  far  down  the  valley,  like  a  park 
Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  descried. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 

Caressed  the  mountain  tops  ;  the  vales  between 

Darkened;  the  river  in  the  meadow-lands 
Sheathed  itself  as  a  sword,  and  was  not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep, 

So  full  of  rest  it  seemed  ;  each  passing  tread 

Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 

A  youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a  home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Rule 

Of  prayer  and   work,    and   counted  work   is 
prayer ; 

The  pen  became  a  clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a  beacon  in  the  midnight  air. 

What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless  way, 
Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 

The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 
Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors  ? 

Boccaccio  was  a  novelist,  a  child 
Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best ! 

This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 
Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one  young  friat 
I  sat  conversing  late  into  the  night, 

Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-fire 
Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  anchorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I  lay ; 

And,  as  a  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep ;  already  it  was  day. 

From  the  high  window  I  beheld  the  scene 
On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had  gazed, — 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 
Of  the  bright  sun, — and  stood  as  one  amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing ; 

The  woodlands  glistened  with  their  jewelled 

crowns ; 
Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 

For  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a  field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 
While  this  world  and  the  next  world  were  at 
strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 

I  saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 
Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of  smoke, 

And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a  dream. 


AMALFI. 

SWEET  the  memory  is  to  me 

Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 

Where,  amid  her  mulberry-trees 

Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 

In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 


THE  SERMOX  OF  ST.  FRAXCIS.— BELTS ARIUS. 


263 


In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 

Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 

The  Camieto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 

Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

'T  is  a  stairway,  not  a  street, 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine. 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear  ; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil  ? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 
Far  above  the  convent  stands. 
On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 
Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof ; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 
And  why  all  men  cannot  be. 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west '? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 
Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast '? 
Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court  V 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast, 
Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 
And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd  ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays. 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves  ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls  ; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies  : 
Even  cities  have  their  graves  ! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land  ! 
Hound  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand  : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Paestiim  with  its  ruins  lies, 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 
On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut-trees  ; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon  ; 
Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 


The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep  ! 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white, 
And  the  river  cased  in  ice. 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  bevoud  the  sea. 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS. 

UP  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain, 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 

St.  Francis  heard  ;  it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim  : 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

"  O  brother  birds,"  St.  Francis  said, 
"  Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

"  Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds. 

With  manna  of  celestial  words  ; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

UO,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 

The  great  Creator  in  your  lays  ; 

He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 

Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

'•  He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high, 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere. 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  !  " 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 
And-  singing  scattered  far  apart ; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis'  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


BELISARIUS. 

I  AM  poor  and  old  and  blind  ; 
The  sun  burns  me,  and  the  wind 

Blows  through  the  city  gate 
And  covers  me  with  dust 
From  the  wheels  of  the  august 

Justinian  the  Great. 

It  was  for  him  I  chased 

The  Persians  o'er  wild  and  waste, 


864 


SONGO  RIVER.— THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE. 


As  General  of  the  East ; 
Night  after  night  I  lay 
In  their  camps  of  yesterday  ; 

Their  forage  was  my  feast. 

For  him,  with  sails  of  red, 
And  torches  at  mast-head, 

Piloting  the  great  fleet, 
I  swept  the  Af  ric  coasts 
And  scattered  the  Vandal  hosts, 

Like  dust  in  a  windy  street. 

For  him  I  won  again 

The  Ausonian  realm  and  reign, 

Rome  and  Parthenope ; 
And  all  the  land  was  mine 
From  the  summits  of  Apennine 

To  the  shores  of  either  sea. 

For  him,  in  my  feeble  age, 
I  dared  the  battle's  rage, 

To  save  Byzantium's  state, 
When  the  tents  of  Zabergan, 
Like  snow-drifts  overran 

The  road  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

And  for  this,  for  this,  behold  ! 
Infirm  and  blind  and  old, 

With  gray,  uncovered  head, 
Beneath  the  very  arch 
Of  my  triumphal  march, 

I  stand  and  beg  my  bread  ! 

Methinks  I  still  can  hear, 
Sounding  distinct  and  near, 

The  Vandal  monarch's  cry, 
As,  captive  and  disgraced, 
With  majestic  step  he  paced,  — 

"All,  all  is  Vanity  !" 

Ah  !  vainest  of  all  things 
Is  the  gratitude  of  kings ; 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
Are  but  the  Matter  of  feet 
At  midnight  in  the  street, 

Hollow  and  restless  and  loud. 

But  the  bitterest  disgrace 
Is  to  see  forever  the  face 

Of  the  Monk  of  Ephesus  ! 
The  unconquerable  will 
This,  too,  can  bear ;  —  I  still 

Am  Belisarius ! 


SONGO  RIVER. 

NOWHERE  such  a  devious  stream, 
Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 
Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 

Never  errant  knight  of  old, 
Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold. 
Such  a  winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Never  school-boy  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 
Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 
Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream !  thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame  ; 
For  thou  hidest  here  alone, 
Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 
Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way  : — 

"Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet ! 
Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste  ! 

"Be  not  like  a  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 


THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE. 
I. 

WHEN  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of  mine, 
Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble  three, 
Who  half  my  life  were  more  than  friends  to  me. 
And  whose  discourse  was  like  a  generous  wine, 

I  most  of  all  remember  the  divine 
Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and  made  us  see 
The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might  be 
The  amplitude  of  Nature's  first  design. 

In  vain  I  stretch  my  hands  to  clasp  their  hands ; 
I  cannot  find  them.     Nothing  now  is  left 
But  a  majestic  memory.     They  meanwhile 

Wander  together  in  Elysian  lands, 

Per*hance  remembering  me,  who  am  bereft 
Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remembering,  smile 


II. 

IN  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 
Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  serene 

And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhelene  ! 

Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the  Attic 

bees  ; 

Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  demesne. 

For  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic  breath  , 
Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold  ! 

O,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death  with  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou  hadst  grown 
old! 


CHAUCER.— SHAKESPEARE.  —MILTON.  —KEATS.  —THE  GALAXY. 


265 


III. 

I  STAND  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 
Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee. 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 
The  rocks,  the  sea-weed  on  the  ocean  floor, 
The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 
Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me  ; 
Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come  no 

more  ? 
Ah,   why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when   common 

men 

Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding  '*.     Why,  when  thou  hadst 

read 

Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Why  shouldst  thou  be 
dead ''. 


IV. 


RIVER,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 
Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,  where  lies 
A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom  these 

eyes 
Shall  see  D  ">  more  in  his  accustomed  place. 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace 

And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western  skies 
Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 
Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's  face. 

Good  night !  good  night !  as  we  so  oft  have  said 
Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 
That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more  return. 

Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to  bed  ; 
I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


V. 

THE  doors  are  all  wide  open  ;  at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air  ;  a  dreamy  haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a  fate, 

And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier  days, 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and  stays 
His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 

I  also  wait !  but  they  will  come  no  more, 

Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence  satisfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.     Ah  me  ! 

They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my  door  ! 
Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they  died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be. 


CHAUCER. 

AN  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park  ; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With   portraitures    of    huntsman,    hawk,    and 

hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer.     He  listeneth  to  the  lark. 

Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine  through  the 

dark 

Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound  ; 
He  listeneth  arid  he  laugheth  at  the  sound, 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 

He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Talcs,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song  ;  and  as  I  read 

I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

A  VISION  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow  ; 
Thunder  of  thoroughfares ;  trumpets  that  blow 
To  battle;  clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 

Of  sailors  landed  from  their  anchored  fleets  ; 
Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of    children,    and   bright  flowers   that 

throw 
O'er  garden-walls  their  intermingled  sweets  ! 

This  vision  comes  to  me  when  I  unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom  all  the  Muses  loved,  not  one  alone  ; — 

Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 

And,    crowned    with    sacred    laurel    at    their 

fount, 
Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their  throne. 


MILTON. 

I  PACE  the  sounding  sea  beach  and  behold 
How  the  voluminous  billows  roll  and  run. 
Upheaving  and  subsiding,  while  the  sun 
Shines  through  their  sheeted  emerald  far  un« 
rolled, 

And  the  ninth  wave,  slow  gathering  fold  by  fold 
All  its  loose-flowing  garments  into  one, 
Plunges  upon  the  shore,  and  floods  the  dun 
Pale  reach  of  sands,  and  changes  them  to  gold. 

So  in  majestic  cadence  rise  and  fall 
The  mighty  undulations  of  thy  song, 
O  sightless  bard,  England's  Maeonides 

And  ever  and  anon,  high  over  all 

Uplifted,  a  ninth  wave  superb  and  strong, 
Floods  all  the  soul  with  its  melodious  seas. 


KEATS. 

THE  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's  sleep ; 
The  shepherd-boy  whose  tale  was  left  half  told  ! 
The  solemn  grove  uplifts  its  shield  of  gold 
To  the  red  rising  moon,  and  loud  and  deep 

The  nightingale  is  singing  from  the  steep  ; 
It  is  midsummer,  but  the  air  is  cold  ; 
Can  it  be  death  V     Alas,  beside  the  fold 
A  shepherd's  pipe  lies  shattered  near  his  sheep. 

Lo  !  in  the  moonlight  gleams  a  marble  white, 
On  which  I  read  :   "  Here  lieth  one  whose  name 
Was  writ  in  water."     And  was  this  the  meed 

Of  his  sweet  singing  ?     Rather  let  me  write  : 
"  The  smoking  flax  before  it  burst  to  flame 
Was    quenched    by    death,    and    broken    the 
bruised  reed." 


THE  GALAXY. 

TORRENT  of  light  and  river  of  the  air, 

Along  whose  bed  the  glimmering  stars  are  seen 
Like  gold  and  silver  sands  in  some  ravine 
Where  mountain  streams  have  left  their  chan 
nels  bare  ! 

The  Spaniard  sees  in  thee  the  pathway,  where 
His  patron  saint  descended  in  the  sheen 
Of  his  celestial  armor,  on  serene 
And  quiet  nights,  when  all  the  heavens  were 

fair. 
Xot.  this  I  see,  nor  yet  the  ancient  fable 

Of  Phaeton's  wild  course,  that   scorched  the 
skies 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA.— IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE. 


Where'er  the  hoofs  of  his  hot  coursers  trod  ; 
But  the  white   drift  of  worlds   o'er  chasms  of 

sable, 

The  star-dust,  that  is  whirled  aloft  and  flies 
From  the  invisible  chariot-wheels  of  God. 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA. 

THE  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and  wide 
I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep ; 

A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a  cataract  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 

So  comes  to  us  at  times,  from  the  unknown 
And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  rushing  of  the  sea -tides  of  the  soul ; 

.And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 

Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  foreseeing 
Of  things  beyond  our  reason  or  control. 


The  world  belongs  to  those  who  come  the  last. 
They  will  find  hope  and  strength  as  we  have 
done. 


A  NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

"A  SOLDIER  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Nameless  and  dateless ;  sentinel  or  scout 

Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its  iron  wedges  through  the  ranks  of  brave 
And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the  redoubt. 

Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In  thy  forgotten  grave !  with"  secret  shame 
I  feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 
I  When  I  remember  thou  hast  given  for  me 

All  that  thou  hadst,  thy  life,  thy  very  name, 
And  I  can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 


A  SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA. 

THE  sun  is  set ;  and  in  his  latest  beams 
Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  gray  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled, 
The  falling  mantle  of  the  Prophet  seems. 

Prom  the  dim  headlands  many  a  lighthouse  gleams, 
The  street-lamps  of  the  ocean  ;  and  behold, 
O'erhead  the  banners  of  the  night  unfold  ; 
The  day  hath  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

O  summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea  ! 
O  summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white, 
So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain  ! 

Forever  and  forever  shalt  thou  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a  dead  delight, 
To  some  the  landmark  of  a  new  domain. 


THE  TIDES. 

I  SAW  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore, 
The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon  the  sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on  every  hand, 
As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no  more. 

Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than  before, 

The  ocean  breathe  and  its  great  breast  expand, 
And  hurrying  came  on  the  defenceless  land 
The  insurgent  waters  with  .tumultuous  roar. 

All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I  said, 
Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant  joy  of  song 
Have  ebbed  from  me  forever !     Suddenly  o'er 
me 

They  swept  again  from  their  deep  ocean  bed, 
And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and  strong 
As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth,  upbore  me. 


A  SHADOW. 

I  SAID  unto  myself,  if  I  were  dead, 
What  would    befall    these    children?      What 

would  be 

Their  fate,  who  now  are  looking  up  to  me 
For  help  and  furtherance  ?    Their  lives,  I  said, 

Would  be  a  volume  wherein  I  have  read 
But  the  first  chapters,  and  no  longer  see 
To  read  the  rest  of  their  dear  history, 
So  full  of  beauty  and  so  full  of  dread. 

Be  comforted ;  the  world  is  very  old, 

And  generations  pass,  as  they  have  passed, 
A  troop  of  shadows  moving  with  the  sun ; 

Thousands  of  times  has  the  old  tale  been  told ; 


SLEEP. 

LULL  me  to  sleep,  ye  winds,  whose  fitful  sound 
Seems    from  some    faint    ./Eolia~v    harpstring 

caught ; 

Seal  up  the  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  thought 
As  Hermes  with  his  lyre  in  sleep  profound 

The  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  Argus  bound  ; 
For  I  am  weary,  and  am  overwrought 
With  too  much  toil,  with  too  much  care  dis 
traught, 
And  with  the  iron  crown  of  anguish  crowned. 

Lay  thy  soft  hand  upon  my  brow  and  cheek. 

0  peaceful  sleep  !  until  from  pain  released 

1  breathe  again  uninterrupted  breath  ! 
Ah,  with  what  subtle  meaning  did  the  Greek 

Call  thee  the  lesser  mystery  at  the  feast 
Whereof  the  greater  mystery  is  death  ! 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE. 

TADPEO  GADDI  built  me.     I  am  old, 

Five  centuries  old.     I  plant  my  foot  of  stone 
Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael's  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.     Fold  by  fold 

Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 
Its  glistening  scales.     Twice  hath  it  overthrown 
My  kindred  and  companions.     Me  alone 
It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 

I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence  ;  longer  still  ago 
The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry ; 
And  when  I  think  that  Michael  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 


IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE. 

GADDI  mi  f ece  ;  il  Ponte  Vecchio  spno ; 
Cinquecent'  anni  gia  sull'  Arno  pianto 
II  piede,  come  il  suo  Michele  Santo 
Pianto  sul  draco.     Mentre  ch'  io  ragiono 

Lo  vedo  torcere  con  flebil  suono 

Le  rilucenti  scaglie.     Ha  questi  affranto 
Due  volte  i  miei  maggior.     Me  solo  intanto 
Neppure  muove,  ed  io  non  1'  abbandono. 

Io  mi  rammento  quando  fur  cacciati 
I  Medici ;  pur  quando  Ghibellino 
E  Guelfo  fecer  pace  mi  rammento. 

Fiorenza  i  suoi  giojelli  m'  ha  prestati ; 
E  quando  penso  ch'  Agnolo  il  divino 
Su  me  posava,  insuperbir  mi  sento. 


KERAMOS. 


267 


KEEAMOS. 


TUHN,  turn,  my  wheel!     Turn  round  and  round 
Without  a  pause,  without  a  sound  : 

So  spins  the  flying  world  away  ! 
This  clay,  well  mixed  with  marl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand ; 
J^or  some  must  follow,  and  some  command, 

Though  all  are  made  of  clay! 

Thus  sang  the  Potter  at  his  task 

Beneath  the  blossoming  hawthorn-tree, 

While  o'er  his  features,  like  a  mask, 

The  quilted  sunshine  and  leaf-shade 

Moved,  as  the  boughs  above  him  swayed, 

And  clothed  him,  till  he  seemed  to  be 

A  figure  woven  in  tapestry, 

So  sumptuously  was  he  arrayed 

In  that  magnificent  attire 

Of  sable  tissue  flaked  with  fire. 

Like  a  magician  he  appeared, 

A  conjurer  without  book  or  beard ; 

And  while  he  plied  his  magic  art  — 

For  it  was  magical  to  me  — 

I  stood  in  silence  and  apart, 

And  wondered  more  and  more  to  see 

That  shapeless,  lifeless  mass  of  clay 

Rise  up  to  meet  the  master's  hand, 

And  now  contract  and  now  expand, 

And  even  his  slightest  touch  obey ; 

While  ever  in  a  thoughtful  mood 

He  sang  his  ditty,  and  at  times 

Whistled  a  tune'between  the  rhymes, 

As  a  melodious  interlude. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !     All  things  must  change 
To  something  new,  to  something  strange  ; 

Nothing  that  is  can  pause  or  stay; 
The  moon  will  wax,  the  moon  will  wane, 
The  mist  and  cloud  will  turn  to  rain, 
The  rain  to  mist  and  cloud  again, 

To-morrow  be  to-day. 

Thus  still  the  Potter  sang,  and  still, 
By  some  unconscious  act  of  will, 
The  melody  and  even  the  words 
Were  intermingled  with  my  thought, 
As  bits  of  colored  thread  are  caught 
And  woven  into  nests  of  birds. 
And  thus  to  regions  far  remote, 
Beyond  the  ocean's  vast  expanse, 
This  wizard  in  the  motley  coat 
Transported  me  on  wings  of  song, 
And  by  the  northern  shores  of  France 
Bore  me  with  restless  speed  along. 

What  land  is  this  that  seems  to  be 

A  mingling  of  the  land  and  sea  V 

This  land  of  sluices,  dikes,  and  dunes  V 

This  water-net,  that  tessellates 

The  landscape  V  this  unending  maze 

Of  gardens,  through  whose  latticed  gates 

The  imprisoned  pinks  and  tulips  gaze; 

Where  in  long  summer  afternoons 

The  sunshine,  softened  by  the  haze, 

Comes  streaming  down  as  through  a  screen  ; 

Where  over  fields  and  pastures  green 

The  painted  ships  float  high  in  air, 

And  over  all  and  everywhere 

The  sails  of  windmills  sink  and  soar 

Like  wings  of  sea-gulls  on  the  shore? 

What  land  is  this?     Yon  pretty  town 
Is  Delft,  with  all  its  wares  displayed ; 


The  pride,  the  market-place,  the  crown 
And  centre  of  the  Potter's  trade. 
See!    every  house  and  room  is  bright 
With  glimmers  of  reflected  light 
From  plates  that  on  the  dresser  shine  : 
Flagons  to  foam  with  Flemish  beer.. 
Or  sparkle  with  the  Rhenish  wine, 
And  pilgrim  flasks  with  fleurs-de-lis, 
And  ships  upon  a  rolling  sea, 
And  tankards  pewter  topped,  and  queer 
With  comic  mask  and  musketeer! 
Each  hospitable  chimney  smiles 
A  welcome  from  its  painted  tiles; 
The  parlor  walls,  the  chamber  floors, 
The  stairways  and  the  corridors, 
The  borders  of  the  garden  walks, 
Are  beautiful  with  fadeless  flowers, 
That  never  droop  in  winds  or  showers. 
And  never  wither  on  their  stalks. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel  !     All  life  is  brief; 
What  now  is  bud  will  soon  be  leaf, 

What  now  is  leaf  will  soon  decay; 
The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west  •, 
The  blue  eggs  in  the  robin's  nest 
Will  soon  have  wings  and  beak  and  breast, 

And  flutter  and  fly  away. 

Now  southward  through  the  air  I  glide, 
The  song  my  only  pursuivant, 
And  see  across  the  landscape  wide 
The  blue  Charente,  upon  whose  tide 
The  belfries  and  the  spires  of  Saintes 
Ripple  and  rock  from  side  to  side, 
As,  when  an  earthquake  rends  its  walls, 
A  crumbling  city  reels  and  falls. 

Who  is  it  in  the  suburbs  here, 
This  Potter,  working  with  such  cheer, 
In  this  mean  house,  this  mean  attire, 
His  manly  features  bronzed  with  fire, 
Whose  fignlines  and  rustic  wares 
Scarce  find  him  bread  from  day  to  day? 
This  madman,  as  the  people  say, 
Who  breaks  his  tables  and  his  chairs 
To  feed  his  furnace  fires,  nor  cares 
Who  goes  unfed  if  they  are  fed, 
Nor  who  may  live  if  they  are  dead? 
This  alchemist  with  hollow  cheeks 
And  sunken,  searching  eyes,  who  seeks, 
By  mingled  earths  and  ores  combined 
With  potency  of  fire,  to  find 
Some  new  enamel,  hard  and  bright, 
His  dream,  his  passion,  his  delight  ? 

0  Palissy!  within  thy  breast 
Burned  the  hot  fever  of  unrest; 
Thine  was  the  prophet's  vision,  thine 
The  exultation,  the  divine 
Insanity  of  noble  minds, 
That  never  falters  nor  abates, 
But  labors  and  endures  and  waits, 
Till  all  that  it  foresees  it  finds, 
Or  what  it  cannot  find  creates ! 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel!     This  earthen  jar 
A  touch  can  make,  a  touch  can  mar  ; 

And  shall  it  to  the  Potter  say, 
What  makest  thou?     Thou  hast  no  hand? 
As  men  who  think  to  understand 
A  world  by  their  Creator  planned, 

Who  wiser  is  than  they. 


268 


KERAMOS. 


Still  guided  by  the  dream}'  song, 

As  in  a  trance  I  float  along 

Above  the  Pyrenean  chain, 

Above  the  fields  and  farms  of  Spain, 

Above  the  bright  Majorcan  isle, 

That  lends  its  softened  name  to  art,  — 

A  spot,  a  dot  upon  the  chart. 

Whose  little  towns,  red-roofed  with  tile, 

Are  ruby-lustred  with  the  light 

Of  blazing  furnaces  by  night, 

And  crowned  by  day  with  wreaths  of  smoke. 

Then  eastward,  wafted  in  my  flight 

On  my  enchanter's  magic  cloak, 

I  sail  across  the  Tyrrhene  Sea 

Into  the  land  of  Italy, 

And  o'er  the  windy  Apennines, 

Mantled  and  musical  with  pines. 

The  palaces,  the  princely  halls, 

The  doors  of  houses  and  the  walls 

Of  churches  and  of  belfry  towers, 

Cloister  and  castle,  street  and  mart, 

Are  garlanded  and  gay  with  flowers 

That  blossom  in  the  fields  of  art. 

Here  Gubbio's  workshops  gleam  and  glow 

With  brilliant,  iridescent  dyes, 

The  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  snow, 

The  cobalt  blue  of  summer  skies  ; 

And  vase  and  scutcheon,  cup  and  plate, 

In  perfect  finish  emulate 

Faenza,  Florence,  Pesaro. 

Forth  from  Urbino's  gate  there  came 

A  youth  with  the  angelic  name 

Of  Raphael,  in  form  and  face 

Himself  angelic,  and  divine 

In  arts  of  color  and  design. 

From  him  Francesco  Xanto  caught 

Something  of  his  transcendent  grace, 

And  into  fictile  fabrics  wrought 

Suggestions  of  the  master's  thought. 

Nor  less  Maestro  Giorgio  shines 

With  madre-perl  and  golden  lines 

Of  arabesques,  and  interweaves 

His  birds  and  fruits  and  flowers  and  leaves 

About  some  landscape,  shaded  brown, 

With  olive  tints  on  rock  and  town. 

Behold  this  cup  within  whose  bowl, 
Upon  a  ground  of  deepest  blue 
With  yellow-lustred  stars  o'erlaid, 
Colors  of  every  tint  and  hue 
Mingle  in  one  harmonious  whole  ! 
"With  large  blue  eyes  and  steadfast  gaze, 
Her  yellow  hair  in  net  and  braid, 
Necklace  and  ear-rings  all  ablaze 
With  golden  lustre  o'er  the  glaze, 
A  woman's  portrait;  on  the  scroll, 
Cana,  the  Beautiful  !     A  name 
Forgotten  save  for  such  brief  fame 
As  this  memorial  can  bestow, — 
A  gift  some  lover  long  ago 
Gave  with  his  heart  to  this  fair  dame. 

A  nobler  title  to  renown 
Is  thine,  O  pleasant  Tuscan  town, 
Seated  beside  the  Arno's  stream ; 
For  Lucca  della  Robbia  there 
Created  forms  so  wondrous  fair, 
The}'  made  thy  sovereignty  supreme. 
These  choristers  with  lips  of  stone, 
Whose  music  is  not  heard,  but  seen, 
Still  chant,  as  from  their  organ-screen, 
Their  Maker's  praise ;  nor  these  alone, 
But  the  more  fragile  forms  of  clay, 
Hardly  less  beautiful  than  they, 
These  saints  and  angels  that  a'dorn 
The  walls  of  hospitals,  and  tell 
The  story  of  good  deeds  so  well 
That  poverty  seems  less  forlorn, 
And  life  more  like  a  holiday. 


Here  in  this  old  neglected  church, 
That  long  eludes  the  traveller's  search, 
Lies  the  dead  bishop  on  his  tomb  ; 
Earth  upon  earth  he  slumbering  lies, 
Life-like  and  death-like  in  the  gloom; 
Garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers  in  bloom 
And  foliage  deck  his  resting-place ; 
A  shadow  in  the  sightless  eyes, 
A  pallor  on  the  patient  face, 
Made  perfect  by  the  furnace  heat ; 
All  earthly  passions  and  desires 
Burnt  out  by  purgatorial  fires ; 
Seeming  to  say,  "  Our  years  are  fleet, 
And  to  the  weary  death  is  sweet." 

But  the  most  wonderful  of  all 

The  ornaments  on  tomb  or  wall 

That  grace  the  fair  Ausonian  shores 

Are  those  the  faithful  earth  restores, 

Near  some  Apulian  town  concealed, 

In  vineyard  or  in  harvest  field,  — 

Vases  and  urns  and  bas-reliefs, 

Memorials  of  forgotten  griefs, 

Or  records  of  heroic  deeds 

Of  demigods  and  mighty  chiefs  : 

Figures  that  almost  move  and  speak, 

And,  buried  amid  mould  and  weeds, 

Still  in  their  attitudes  attest 

The  presence  of  the  graceful  Greek,  — 

Achilles  in  his  armor  dressed, 

Alcides  with  the  Cretan  bull, 

And  Aphrodite  with  her  boy, 

Or  lovely  Helena  of  Troy, 

Still  living  and  still  beautiful. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !     'T  is  nature's  plan 
The  child  should  grow  into  the  man, 

The  man  grow  wrinkled,  old,  and  gray; 
In  youth  the  heart  exults  and  sings, 
The  pulses  leap,  the  feet  have  wings; 
In  age  the  cricket  chirps,  and  brings 

The  harvest  home  of  day. 

And  now  the  winds  that  southward  blow, 
And  cool  the  hot  Sicilian  isle, 
Bear  me  away.     I  see  below 
The  long  line  of  the  Libyan  Nile, 
Flooding  and  feeding  the  parched  lands 
With  annual  ebb  and  overflow, 
A  fallen  palm  whose  branches  lie 
Beneath  the  Abyssinian  sky, 
Whose  roots  are  in  Egyptian  sands. 
On  either  bank  huge  water-wheels, 
Belted  with  jars  and  dripping  weeds. 
Send  forth  their  melancholy  moans, 
As  if,  in  their  gray  mantles  hid, 
Dead  anchorites  of  the  Thebaid 
Knelt  on  the  shore  and  told  their  beads, 
Beating  their  breasts  with  loud  appeals 
And  penitential  tears  and  groans. 

This  city,  walled  and  thickly  set 
With  glittering  mosque  and  minaret, 
Is  Cairo,  in  whose  gay  bazaars 
The  dreaming  traveller  first  inhales 
The  perfume  of  Arabian  gales, 
And  sees  the  fabulous  earthen  jars, 
Huge  as  were  those  wherein  the  maid 
Morgiana  found  the  Forty  Thieves 
Concealed  in  midnight  ambuscade; 
And  seeing,  more  than  half  believes 
The  fascinating  tales  that  run 
Through  all  the  Thousand  Nights  and  One, 
Told  by  the  fair  Scheherezade. 

More  strange  and  wonderful  than  these 

Are  the  Egyptian  deities, 

Ammon,  and  Emoth,  and  the  grand 

Osiris,  holding  in  his  hand 

The  lotus ;  Isis,  crowned  and  veiled ; 

The  sacred  Ibis,  and  the  Sphinx; 


K£RAMOS. 


269 


Bracelets  with  blue  enamelled  links  ; 

The  Scarabee  in  emerald  mailed, 

Or  spreading  wide  his  funeral  wings; 

Lamps  that  perchance  their  night-watch  kept 

O'er  Cleopatra  while  she  slept,  — 

All  plundered  from  the  tombs  of  kings. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !     The  human  race, 
Of  every  tongue,  of  every  place, 

Caucasian,  Coptic,  or  Malay, 
All  that  inhabit  this  great  earth, 
Whatever  be  their  rank  or  worth, 
Are  kindred  and  allied  by  birth, 

And  made  of  the  same  clay. 

O'er  desert  sands,  o'er  gulf  and  bay, 
O'er  Ganges  and  o'er  Himalay, 
Bird-like  I  fly,  and  flying  sing, 
To  flowery  kingdoms  of  Cathay, 
And  bird-like  poise  on  balanced  wing 
Above  the  town  of  King-te-tchiiig, 
A  burning  town,  or  seeming  so,  — 
Three  thousand  furnaces  that  glow 
Incessantly,  and  fill  the  air 
With  smoke  uprising,  gyre  on  gyre, 
And  painted  by  the  lurid  glare, 
Of  jets  and  flashes  of  red  tire. 

As  leaves  that  in  the  autumn  fall, 

Spotted  and  veined  with  various  hues, 

Are  swept  along  the  avenues, 

And  lie  in  heaps  by  hedge  and  wall, 

So  from  this  grove  of  chimneys  whirled 

To  all  the  markets  of  the  world, 

These  porcelain  leaves  are  wafted  on,  — 

Light  yellow  leaves  with  spots  and  stains 

Of  violet  and  of  crimson  dye, 

Or  tender  azure  of  a  sky 

Just  washed  by  gentle  April  rains, 

And  beautiful  with  celadon. 

Nor  less  the  coarser  household  wares,  — 
The  willow  pattern,  that  we  knew 
In  childhood,  with  its  bridge  of  blue 
Leading  to  unknown  thoroughfares; 
The  solitary  man  who  stares 
At  the  white  river  flowing  through 
Its  arches,  the  fantastic  trees 
And  wild  perspective  of  the  view ; 
And  intermingled  among  these 
The  tiles  that  in  our  nurseries 
Filled  us  with  wonder  and  delight, 
Or  haunted  us  in  dreams  at  night. 

And  yonder  by  Nankin,  behold! 
The  Tower  of  Porcelain,  strange  and  old, 
Uplifting  to  the  astonished  skies 
Its  ninefold  painted  balconies, 
With  balustrades  of  twining  leaves, 
And  roofs  of  tile,  beneath  whose  eaves 
Hang  porcelain  bells  that  all  the  time 
Ring  with  a  soft,  melodious  chime; 
While  the  whole  fabric  is  ablaze 
With  varied  tints,  all  fused  in  one 
Great  mass  of  color,  like  a  maze 
Of  flowers  illumined  by  the  sun. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !     What  is  begun 
At  daybreak  must  at  dark  be  done. 

To-morrow  will  be  another  day ; 
To-morrow  the  hot  furnace  flame 


Will  search  the  heart  and  try  the  frame, 
And  stamp  with  honor  or  with  shame 
These  vessels  made  of  clay. 

Cradled  and  rocked  in  Eastern  seas, 

The  islands  of  the  Japanese 

Beneath  me  lie;  o'er  lake  and  plain 

The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 

Through  the  clear  realms  of  azure  drift, 

And  on  the  hillside  I  can  see 

The  villages  of  Imari, 

Whose  thronged  and  flaming  workshops  lift 

Their  twisted  columns  of  smoke  on  high, 

Cloud  cloisters  that  in  ruins  lie, 

With  sunshine  streaming  through  each  rift, 

And  broken  arches  of  blue  sky. 

All  the  bright  flowers  that  fill  the  land, 

Ripple  of  waves  on  rock  or  sand, 

The  snow  on  Fusiyama's  cone, 

The  midnight  heaven  so  thickly  sown 

With  constellations  of  bright  stars, 

The  leaves  that  rustle,  the  reeds  that  make 

A  whisper  by  each  stream  and  lake, 

The  saffron  dawn,  the  sunset  red, 

Are  painted  on  these  lovely  jars  ; 

Again  the  skylark  sings,  again 

The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  craue 

Float  through  the  azure  overhead, 

The  counterfeit  and  counterpart 

Of  Nature  reproduced  in  Art. 

Art  is  the  child  of  Nature  ;  yes, 

Her  darling  child,  in  whom  we  trace 

The  features  of  the  mother's  face, 

Her  aspect  and  her  attitude, 

All  her  majestic  loveliness 

Chastened  and  softened  and  subdued 

Into  a  more  attractive  grace, 

And  with  a  human  sense  imbued. 

He  is  the  greatest  artist,  then, 

Whether  of  pencil  or  of  pen, 

Who  follows  Nature.     Never  man, 

As  artist  or  as  artisan, 

Pursuing  his  own  fantasies, 

"Ian  touch  the  human  heart,  or  pleasa, 

Or  satisfy  our  nobler  needs. 

As  he  who  sets  his  willing  feet 

[n  Nature's  footprints,  light  and  fleet 

And  follows  fearless  where  she  leads. 

Thus  mused  I  on  that  morn  in  May, 
Wrapped  in  my  visions  like  the  Seer, 
Whose  eyes  behold  not  what  is  near, 
But  only  what  is  far  away, 
When,  suddenly  sounding  peal  on  peal, 
The  church-hell  from  the  neighboring  town 
Proclaimed  the  welcome  hour  of  noon, 
The  Potter  heard,  and  stopped  his  wheel, 
His  apron  on  the  grass  threw  down, 
Whistled  his  quiet  little  tune, 
Not  overload  nor  overlong, 
And  ended  thus  his  simple  song  : 

Stop,  stop,  my  wheel !     Too  soon,  tor  soox\ 
The  noon  will"  be  the  afternoon, 

Too  soon  to-day  be  yesterday ; 
Behind  us  in  our  path  we  cast 
The  broken  potsherds  of  the  past, 
And  all  are  ground  to  dust  at  last, 

And-  trodden  into  clay ! 


270 


THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD.  —  A  DUTCH  PICTURE. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT   THE   FIFTH. 


THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD. 

WARM  and  still  is  the  summer  night, 
As  here  by  the  river's  brink  I  wander; 

White  overhead  are  the  stars,  and  white 
The  glimmering  lamps  on  the  hillside  yonder. 

Silent  are  all  the  sounds  of  day  ; 

Nothing  I  hear  but  the  chirp  of  crickets, 
And  the  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their  way 

O'er  the  poet's  house  in  the  Elmwood  thickets. 

Call  to  him,  herons,  as  slowly  you  pass 
To    your  roosts    in    the    haunts    of    the    exiled 
thrushes, 

Sing  him  the  song  of  the  green  more ss, 
And  the  tides  that  water  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

Sing  him  the  mystical  Song  of  the  Hern, 
And  the  secret  that  baffles  our  uonost  seeking; 

For  only  a  sound  of  lament  we  discern, 
And  cannot  interpret  the  words  you  are  speak 
ing. 

Sing  of  the  air  and  the  wild  delight 

Of  wings  that  uplift  and  winds  that  uphold  you, 
The  joy  of  freedom,  the  rapture  of  flight 

Through  the  drift  of  the  floating  mists  that  infold 


Of  the  landscape  lying  so  far  below, 
With  its  towns  and  rivers  and  desert  places; 

And  the  splendor  of  light  above,  and  the  glow 
Of  the  limitless,  blue,  ethereal  spaces. 

Ask  him  if  songs  of  the  Troubadours, 
Or  of  Minnesingers  in  old  black-letter, 

Sound  in  his  ears  more  sweet  than  yours, 
And  if  yours  are  not  sweeter  and  wilder  and  bet 
ter. 


Sing  to  him,  say  to  him,  here  at  his  gate, 

Where  the  boughs  of  the  stately  elms  are  meeting, 

Some  one  hath  lingered  to  meditate, 
And  send  him  unseen  this  friendly  greeting; 

That  many  another  hath  done  the  same, 
Though  not  by  a  sound  was  the  silence  broken; 

The  surest  pledge  of  a  deathless  name 

Is  the  silent  homage  of  thoughts  unspoken. 


A  DUTCH  PICTURE. 

SIMON  DANZ  has  come  home  again, 

From  cruising  about  with  his  buccaneers; 

He  has  singed  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 

In  his  house  by  the  Maese,  with  its  roof  of  tiles, 

And  weathercocks  flying  aloft  in  air, 
There  are  silver  tankards  of  antique  styles, 
Plunder  of  convent  and  castle,  and  piles 
Of  carpets  rich  and  rare. 

In  his  tulip-garden  there  by  the  town, 

Overlooking  the  sluggish  stream, 
With  his  Moorish  cap  and  dressing-gown, 
The  old  sea-captain,  hale  and  brown, 

Walks  in  a  waking  dream. 

A  smile  in  his  gray  mustachio  lurks 

Whenever  he  thinks  of  the  King  of  Spain ; 

And  the  listed  tulips  look  like  Turks, 

And  the  silent  gardener  as  he  works 
Is  changed  to  the  Dean  of  Jaen. 

The  windmills  on  the  outermost 
Verge  of  the  landscape  in  the  haze, 


The  windmills  on  the  outermos 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN.  —  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 


271 


To  him  are  towers  on  the  Spanish  coast, 
With  whiskered  sentinels  at  their  post, 
Though  this  is  the  river  Maese. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 
And  old  seafaring  men  come  in, 
Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double  chin, 
And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night ; 

Figures  in  color  and  design 

Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 
Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

And  they  talk  of  ventures  lost  or  won, 

And  their  talk  is  ever  and  ever  the  same, 
While  they  drink  the  red  wine  of  Tarragon, 
From  the  cellars  of  some  Spanish  Don, 
Or  convent  set  on  flame. 

Restless  at  times  with  heavy  strides 

He  paces  his  parlor  to  and  fro; 
He  is  like  a  ship  that  at  anchor  rides, 
And  swings  with  the  rising  and  falling  tides, 

And  tugs  at  her  anchor-tow. 

Voices  mysterious  far  and  near, 

Sound  of  the  wind  and  sound  of  the  sea, 

Are  calling  and  whispering  in  his  ear, 
"  Simon  Danz!     Why  stayest  thou  here? 
Come  forth  and  follow  me !  " 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 
For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers, 
To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sell  him  in  Algiers. 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN. 

How  much  of  my  young  heart,  O  Spain, 
Went  out  to  thee  in  days  of  yore! 

What  dreams  romantic  filled  my  brain, 

And  summoned  back  to  life  again 

The  Paladins  of  Charlemagne, 
The  Cid  Campeador ! 

And  shapes  more  shadowy  than  these, 

In  the  dim  twilight  half  revealed; 
Phoenician  galleys  on  the  seas, 
The  Roman  camps  like  hives  of  bees, 
The  Goth  uplifting  from  his  knees 
Pelayo  on  his  shield. 

It  was  these  memories  perchance, 
From  annals  of  remotest  eld, 

That  lent  the  colors  of  romance 

To  every  trivial  circumstance, 

And  changed  the  form  and  countenance 
Of  all  that  I  beheld. 

Old  towns,  whose  history  lies  hid 
In  monkish  chronicle  or  rhyme, 

Burgos,  the  birthplace  of  the  Cid, 

Zamora  and  Valladolid, 

Toledo,  built  and  walled  amid 
The  wars  of  Wamba's  time; 

The  long,  straight  line  of  the  highway, 
The  distant  town  that  seems  so  near, 
The  peasants  in  the  fields,  that  stay 
Their  toil  to  cross  themselves  and  pray, 
When  from  the  belfry  at  midday 
The  Angelus  they  hear; 

White  crosses  in  the  mountain  pass, 
Mules  gay  with  tassels,  the  loud  din 


Of  muleteers,  the  tethered  ass 
That  crops  the  dusty  wayside  grass, 
And  cavaliers  with  spurs  of  brass 
Alighting  at  the  inn ; 

White  hamlets  hidden  in  fields  of  wheat, 

White  cities  slumbering  bvthe  sea, 
White  sunshine  flooding  square  and  street, 
Dark  mountain  ranges,  at  whose  feet 
The  river-beds  are  dry  with  heat,  — 
All  was  a  dream  to  me. 

Yet  something  sombre  and  severe 
O'er  the  enchanted  landscape  reigned; 

A  terror  in  the  atmosphere 

As  if  King  Philip  listened  near, 

Or  Torquemada,  the  austere, 
His  ghostly  sway  maintained. 

The  softer  Andalusian  skies 

Dispelled  the  sadness  and  the  gloom; 

There  Cadiz  by  the  seaside  lies, 

And  Seville's  orange-orchards  rise, 

Making  the  land  a  paradise 
Of  beauty  and  of  bloom. 

There  Cordova  is  hidden  among 

The  palm,  the  olive,  and  the  vine ; 
Gem  of  the  South,  by  poets  sung, 
And  in  whose  Mosque  Almanzor  hung 
As  lamps  the  bells  that  once  had  rung 
At  Compostella's  shrine. 

But  over  all  the  rest  supreme, 

The  star  of  stars,  the  cynosure, 
The  artist's  and  the  poet's  theme, 
The  young  man's  vision,  the  old  man's  dream,  • 
Granada  by  its  winding  stream, 

The  city  of  the  Moor! 

And  there  the  Alhambra  still  recalls 

Aladdin's  palace  of  delight: 
Allah  il  Allah!  through  its  halls 
Whispers  the  fountain  as  it  falls, 
The  Darro  darts  beneath  its  walls, 

The  hills  with  snow  are  white. 

Ah  yes,  the  hills  are  white  with  snow, 
And  cold  with  blasts  that  bite  and  freeze; 

But  in  the  happy  vale  below 

The  orange  and  pomegranate  grow, 

And  wafts  of  air  toss  to  and  fro 
The  blossoming  almond-trees. 

The  Vega  cleft  by  the  Xenil, 

The  fascination  and  allure 
Of  the  sweet  landscape  chains  the  will ; 
The  traveller  lingers  on  the  hill, 
His  parted  lips  are  breathing  still 

The  last  sigh  of  the  Moor. 

How  like  a  ruin  overgrown 

With  flowers  that  hide  the  rents  of  time, 
Stands  now  the  Past  that  I  have  known, 
Castles  in  Spain,  not  built  of  stone 
But  of  white  summer  clouds,  and  blown 

Into  this  little  mist  of  rhvme  ! 


VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA,  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  the 
Marchese  di  Pescara,  retired  to  her  castle  at  Ischia(Tna- 
rime),  and  there  wrote  the  Ode  upon  his  death,  which 
gained  her  the  title  of  Divine. 

ONCK  more,  once  more,  Inarime', 
I  see  thy  purple  hills  !  — once  more^ 

I  hear  the'  billows  of  the  bay 

Wash  the  white  pebbles  on  thy  shore. 


272 


THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-F ACE.  —THE  EMPEROR'S  GLOVE. 


High  o'er  the  sea-surge  and  the  sands, 
Like  a  great  galleon  wrecked  and  cast 

Ashore  by  storms,  thy  castle  stands, 
A  mouldering  landmark  of  the  Past. 

Upon  its  terrace-walk  I  see 

A  phantom  gliding  to  and  fro; 
It  is  Colonna,  —  it  is  she 

Who  lived  and  loved  so  long  ago. 

Pescara's  beautiful  young  wife, 
The  type  of  perfect  womanhood, 

Whose  life  was  love,  the  life  of  life, 

That  time  and  change  and  death  withstood. 

For  death,  that  breaks  the  marriage  band 

In  others,  only  closer  pressed 
The  wedding-ring  upon  her  hand 

And  closer  locked  and  barred  her  breast. 

She  knew  the  life-long  martyrdom, 

The  weariness,  the  endless  pain 
Of  waiting  for  some  one  to  come 

Who  nevermore  would  come  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  chestnut-trees, 

The  odor  of  the  orange  blooms, 
The  song  of  birds,  and,  more  than  these, 

The  silence  of  deserted  rooms; 

The  respiration  of  the  sea, 

The  soft  caresses  of  the  air, 
All  things  in  nature  seemed  to  be 

But  ministers  of  her  despair; 
x 

Till  the  o'erburdened  heart,  so  long 

Imprisoned  in  itself,  found  vent 
And  voice  in  one  impassioned  song 

Of  inconsolable  lament. 

Then  as  the  sun,  though  hidden  from  sight, 
Transmutes  to  gold  the  leaden  mist, 

Her  life  was  interfused  with  light, 
From  realms  that,  though  unseen,  exist. 

Inarime"  !     Inarime" ! 

Thy  castle  on  the  crags  above 
In  dust  shall  crumble  and  decav, 

But  not  the  memory  of  her  love. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. 

IN  that  desolate  land  and  lone, 
Where  the  Big  Horn  and  Yellowstone 

Roar  down  their  mountain  path, 
By  their  fires  the  Sioux  Chiefs 
Muttered  their  woes  and  griefs 

And  the  menace  of  their  wrath. 

"  Revenge  !  "  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 
"Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair  !  " 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  re-echoed  the  cry 
Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  meadow,  spreading  wide 
By  woodland  and  riverside 

The  Indian  village  stood; 
All  was  silent  as  a  dream, 
Save  the  rushing  of  the  stream 

And  the  blue-jay  in  the  wood. 

In  his  war  paint  and  his  beads, 
Like  a  bison  among  the  reeds, 

In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull 
Lay  with  three  thousand  braves 
Crouched  in  the  clefts  and  caves, 

Savage,  unmerciful ! 


Into  the  fatal  snare 

The  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair 

And  his  three  hundred  men 
Dashed  headlong,  sword  in  hand; 
But  of  that  gallant  band 

Not  one  returned  again. 

The  sudden  darkness  of  death 
Overwhelmed  them  like  the  breath 

And  smoke  of  a  furnace  fire : 
By  the  river's  bank  and  between 
The  rocks  of  the  ravine, 

They  lay  in  their  bloody  attire. 

But  the  foemen  fled  in  the  night, 
And  Rain-in-the  Face,  in  his  flight, 

Uplifted  high  in  air 
As  a  ghastly  trophy,  bore 
The  brave  heart,  that  beat  no  more, 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair. 

Whose  was  the  right  and  the  wrong  ? 
Sing  it,  O  funeral  song, 

With  a  voice  that  is  full  of  tears, 
And  say  that  our  broken  faith 
Wrought  all  this  ruin  and  scathe, 

In  the  Year  of  a  Hundred  Years. 


TO  THE  RIVER  YVETTE. 

0  LOVELY  river  of  Yvette  ! 

O  darling  river  !  like  a  bride, 
Some  dimpled,  bashful,  fair  Lisette, 

Thou  goest  to  wed  the  Orge's  tide. 

Maincourt,  and  lordly  Dampierre, 
See  and  salute  thee  on  thy  way, 

And,  with  a  blessing  and  a  prayer, 
Ring  the-sweet  bells  of  St.  Forget. 

The  valley  of  Chevreuse  in  vain 

Would  hold  thee  in  its  fond  embrace; 

Thou  glidest  from  its  arms  again 
And  hurriest  on  with  swifter  pace. 

Thou  wilt  not  stay;  with  restless  feet 
Pursuing  still  thine  onward  flight, 

Thou  goest  as  one  in  haste  to  meet 
Her  sole  desire,  her  heart's  delight. 

O  lovely  river  of  Yvette ! 

O  darling  stream  !  on  balanced  wings 
The  wood-birds  sang  the  chansonnette 

That  here  a  wandering  poet  sings. 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GLOVE. 

COMBIEN  faudrait-il  de  peaux  d'Espagne  pour  faire 
un  gant  de  cette  grandeur?  A  play  upon  the  \vords 
gant,  a  glove,  and  Gand,  the  French  for  Ghent. 

ON  St.  Bavon's  tower,  commanding 

Half  of  Flanders,  his  domain, 
Charles  the  Emperor  once  was  standing, 
While  beneath  him  on  the  landing 

Stood  Duke  Alva  and  his  train. 

Like  a  print  in  books  of  fables, 

Or  a  model  made  for  show, 
With  its  pointed  roofs  and  gables, 
Dormer  windows,  scrolls  and  labels, 

Lay  the  city  far  below. 

Through  its  squares  and  streets  and  alleys 

Poured  the  populace  of  Ghent ; 
As  a  routed  army  rallies, 
Or  as  rivers  run  through  valleys, 

Hurrying  to  their  homes  they  went. 


A  BALLAD   OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET.  — THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG. 


273 


Nest  of  Lutheran  misbelievers!  " 
Cried  Duke  Alva  as  he  gazed; 
Haunt  of  traitors  and  deceivers, 
Stronghold  of  insurgent  weavers, 
Let  it  to  the  ground  be  razed  !  " 

On  the  Emperor's  cap  the  feather 

Nods,  as  laughing  he  replies: 
How  many  skins  of  Spanish  leather, 
Think  you,  would,  if  stitched  together, 
Make  a  glove  of  such  a  size  ?  " 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE   FRENCH    FLEET. 

OCTOBER,    1746. 

MR.  THOMAS  PRINCE  loquitur. 

A  FLEET  with  flags   arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal  :   "Steer  southwest." 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly :  "  Let  us  pray ! 

"  0  Lord!  we  would  not  advise; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword. 
And  I  cried:  "  Stand  still,  and  see 
.   The  salvation  of  the  Lord  !  " 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 
Blew  the  October  gale. 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these ! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line; 
They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
0  Lord  !  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
18 


When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 
With  thine  horses  through  the  sea ! 


THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG. 

MOUNTED  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet, 
His  chestnut  steed  with  four  white  feet 

Roushan  Beg,  called  Kurroglou, 
Son  of  the  road  and  bandit  chief, 
Seeking  refuge  and  relief, 

Up  the  mountain  pathway  flew. 

Such  was  Kyrat's  wondrous  speed. 
Never  yet  could  any  steed 

Reach  the  dust-cloud  in  his  course. 
More  than  maiden,  more  than  wife, 
More  than  gold  and  next  to  life 

Roushan  the  Robber  loved  his  horse. 

In  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
Erzerouni  and  Trebizond, 

Garden-girt  his  fortress  stood  ; 
Plundered  khan,  or  caravan 
Journeying  north  from  Koordistan, 

Gave  him  wealth  and  wine  and  food 

Seven  hundred  and  fourscore 
Men  at  arms  his  livery  wore, 

Did  his  bidding  night  and  day. 
Now,  through  regions  all  unknown, 
He  was  wandering,  lost,  alone, 

Seeking  without  guide  his  way. 

Suddenly  the  pathway  ends, 
Sheer  the  precipice  descends, 

Loud  the  torrent  roars  unseen ; 
Thirty  feet  from  side  to  side 
Yawns  the  chasm;  on  air  must  ride 

He  who  crosses  this  ravine. 

Following  close  in  his  pursuit, 
At  the  precipice's  foot 

Reyhan  the  Arab  of  Orfah 
Halted  with  his  hundred  men, 
Shouting  upward  from  the  glen, 

"La  Ill&a  ilia  Allah!" 

Gently  Roushan  Beg  caressed 
Kyrat's  forehead,  neck,  and  breast; 

Kissed  him  upon  both  his  eyes; 
Sang  to  him  in  his  wild  way, 
As  upon  the  topmost  spray 

Sings  a  bird  before  it  flies. 

"  0  my  Kyrat,  0  my  steed, 
Round  and  slender  as  a  reed, 

Carry  me  this  peril  through ! 
Satin  housings  shall  be  thine, 
Shoes  of  gold,  O  Kyrat  mine, 
O  thou  soul  of  Kurroglou  ! 

"  Soft  thy  skin  as  silken  skein, 
Soft  as  woman's  hair  thy  mane, 

Tender  are  thine  eyes  and  true; 
All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine, 
Polished  bright;  O  life  of  mine, 

Leap,  and  rescue  Kurroglou  !  '' 

Kyrat,  then,  the  strong  and  fleet, 
Drew  together  his  four  white  feet, 

Paused  a  moment  on  the  verge, 
Measured  with  his  eye  the  space, 
And  into  the  air's  embrace 

Leaped  as  leaps  the  ocean  surge. 

As  the  ocean  surge  o'er  sand 
Bears  a  swimmer  safe  to  land, 

Kyrat  safe  his  rider  bore; 
Rattling  down  the  deep  abyss 


274 


HAROUN  AL  RASCHID.  — THE  THREE  KINGS. 


Fragments  of  the  precipice 
Rolled  like  pebbles  on  a  shore. 

Roushan's  tasselled  cap  of  red 
Trembled  not  upon  his  head, 

Careless  sat  he  and  upright ; 
Neither  hand  nor  bridle  shook, 
Nor  his  head  he  turned  to  look, 

As  he  galloped  out  of  sight. 

Flash  of  harness  in  the  air, 
Seen  a  moment  like  the  glare 

Of  a  sword  drawn  from  its  sheath ; 
Thus  the  phantom  horseman  passed, 
And  the  shadow  that  he  cast 

Leaped  the  cataract  underneath. 

.Reyhan  the  Arab  held  his  breath 
While  this  vision  of  life  and  death 

Passed  above  him.     "  Allahu  !  " 
Cried  he.     "  In  all  Koordistan 
Lives  there  not  so  brave  a  man 

As  this  Robber  Kurroglou  !  " 


HAROUN  AL  RASCHID. 

ONE  day,  Haroun  Al  Raschid  read 
A  book  wherein  the  poet  said:  — 

"  Where  are  the  kings,  and  where  the  rest 
Of  those  who  once  the  world  possessed  V 

"  They  're  gone  with  all  their  pomp  and  show, 
They  're  gone  the  way  that  thou  shall  go. 

"  O  thou  who  choosest  for  thy  share 
The  world,  and  what  the  world  calls  fair, 

"  Take  all  that  it  can  give  or  lend, 
But  know  that  death  is  at  the  end  !  " 

Haroun  Al  Raschid  bowed  his  head : 
Tears  fell  upon  the  page  he  read. 


KING  TRISANKU. 

VISWAMITRA  the  Magician, 
By  his  spells  and  incantations, 

Up  to  Indra's  realms  elysian 

Raised  Trisanku,  king  of  nations. 

Indra  and  the  gods  offended 

Hurled  him  downward,  and  descending 
In  the  air  he  hung  suspended, 

With  these  equal  powers  contending. 

Thus  by  aspirations  lifted, 

By  misgivings  downward  driven, 

Human  hearts  are  tossed  and  drifted 
Midway  between  earth  and  heaven. 


A  WRAITH  IN  THE  MIST. 

SIR,  I  should  build  me  a  fortification,  if  I  came  to  live 
here.''  — BOSWELL'S  Johnson. 

ON  the  green  little  isle  of  Inchkenneth, 
Who  is  it  that  walks  by  the  shore, 

So  gay  with  his  Highland  blue  bonnet, 
So  brave  with  his  targe  and  claymore  ? 

His  form  is  the  form  of  a  giant, 

But  his  face  wears  an  aspect  of  pain; 

Can  this  be  the  Laird  of  Inchkenneth  ? 
Can  this  be  Sir  Allan  McLean  ? 


Ah,  no  !     It  is  only  the  Rambler, 
The  Idler,  who  Jives  in  Bolt  Court, 

And  who  says,  were  he  Laird  of  Inchkenneth, 
He  would  wall  himself  round  with  a  fort. 


THE  THREE  KINGS. 

THREE  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away, 

Melchior  and  Gaspar  and  Baltasar ; 
Three  Wise  Men  out  of  the  East  were  they, 

And  they  travelled  by  night  and  they  slept  by 

day> 
For  their  guide  was  a  beautiful,  wonderful  star. 

The  star  was  so  beautiful,  large,  and  clear, 

That  all  the  other  stars  of  the  sky 
Became  a  white  mist  in  the  atmosphere, 
And  by  this  they  knew  that  the  coming  was  near 

Of  the  Prince  foretold  in  the  prophecy. 

Three  caskets  they  bore  on  their  saddle-bows, 

Three  caskets  of  gold  with  golden  keys; 
Their  robes  were  of  crimson  silk  with  rows 
Of  bells  and  pomegranates  and  furbelows, 
Their  turbans  like  blossoming  almond-trees. 

And  so  the  Three  Kings  rode  into  the  West, 

Through  the  dusk  of  night,  over  hill  and  dell, 
And  sometimes  they  nodded  with  beard  on  breast, 
And  sometimes  talked,  as  they  paused  to  rest, 
With  the  people  they  met  at  some  wayside  well. 

"  Of  the  child  that  is  born,"  said  Baltasar, 

"  Good  people,  I  pray  you  tell  us  the  news; 
For  we  in  the  East  have  seen  his  star, 
And  have  ridden  fast,  and  have  ridden  far, 
To  find  and  worship  the  King  of  the  Jews." 

And  the  people  answered,  "  You  ask  in  vain ; 

We  know  of  no  king  but  Herod  the  Great !  " 
They  thought  the  Wise  Men  were  men  insane, 
As  the}'  spurred  their  horses  across  the  plain, 

Like  riders  in  haste,  and  who  cannot  wait. 

And  when  they  came  to  Jerusalem, 

Herod  the  Great,  who  had  heard  this  thing, 

Sent  for  the  Wise  Men  and  questioned  them; 

And  said,  "  Go  down  unto  Bethlehem, 
And  bring  me  tidings  of  this  new  king." 

So  they  rode  away ;  and  the  star  stood  still, 

The  only  one  in  the  gray  of  morn ; 
Yes,  it  stopped,  it  stood  still  of  its  own  free  will, 
Right  over  Bethlehem  on  the  hill, 

The  city  of  David  where  Christ  was  born. 

And  the  Three  Kings  rode  through  the  gate  and  the 

guard, 

Through  the  silent  street,  till  their  horses  turned 
And  neighed  as  they  entered  the  great  inn-yard  ; 
But  the  windows  were  closed,  and  the  doors  were 

barred, 
And  only  a  light  in  the  stable  burned. 

And  cradled  there  in  the  scented  hay, 
In  the  air  made  sweet  by  the  breath  of  kine, 

The  little  child  in  the  manger  lay, 

The  child,  that  would  be  king  one  da}T 
Of  a  kingdom  not  human,  but  divine. 

His  mother,  Mary  of  Nazareth, 

Sat  watching  beside  his  place  of  rest, 
Watching  the  even  flow  of  his  breath, 
For  the  joy  of  life  and  the  terror  of  death 

Were  mingled  together  in  her  breast. 

They  laid  their  offerings  at  his  feet: 
The  gold  was  their  tribute  to  a  King, 


SONG. —IN   THE  CHURCHYARD   AT   TARRYTOWN. 


275 


The  frankincense,  with  its  odor  sweet, 
Was  for  the  Priest,  the  Paraclete, 
The  myrrh  for  the  body's  burying. 

And  the  mother  wondered  and  bowed  her  head, 

And  sat  as  still  as  a  statue  of  stone ; 
Her  heart  was  troubled,  yet  comforted. 
Remembering  what  the  Angel  had  said 
Of  an  endless  reign  and  of  David's  throne. 

Then  the  Kings  rode  out,  of  the  city  gate, 
With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in  proud  array; 
But  they  went  not  back  to  Herod  the  Great, 
For  they  knew  his  malice  and  feared  his  hate, 
And  returned  to  their  homes  bv  another  way. 


SONG. 

STAY,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown  about 
By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly, 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


THE   WHITE   CZAR. 

THE  White  Czar  is  Peter  the  Great.  Batyushka,  Father 
iear,  and  Gosudar,  Sovereign,  are  titles  the  Russian  peo 
ple  are  fond  of  giving  to  the  Czar  in  their  popular  songs. 

DOST  thou  see  on  the  rampart's  height 
That  wreath  of  mist,  in  the  light 
Of  the  midnight  moon  ?     Oh,  hist! 
It  is  not  a  wreath  of  mist ; 
It  is  the  Czar,  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka !     Gosudar  ! 

He  has  heard,  among  the  dead, 

The  artillery  roll  o'erhead; 

The  drums  and  the  tramp  of  feet 


Of  his  soldiery  in  the  street; 
He  is  awake  f  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka!     Gosudar! 

He  has  heard  in  the  grave  the  cries 
Of  his  people  :   "  Awake !  arise  !  " 
He  has  rent  the  gold  brocade 
Whereof  his  shroud  was  made; 
He  is  risen  !  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka !     Gosudar ! 

From  the  Volga  and  the  Don 
He  has  led  his  armies  on, 
Over  river  and  morass, 
Over  desert  and  mountain  pass; 
The  Czar,  the  Orthodox  Czar, 
Batyushka!     Gosudar! 

He  looks  from  the  mountain-chain 
Toward  the  seas,  that  cleave  in  twain 
The  continents;  his  hand 
Points  southward  o'er  the  land 
Of  Roumili !     O  Czar, 

Batyushka !     Gosudar ! 

And  the  words  break  from  his  lips  : 
"  I  am  the  builder  of  ships, 
And  my  ships  shall  sail  these  seas 
To  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  ! 
I  say  it;  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  !     Gosudar ! 

"  The  Bosphorus  shall  be  free  ; 
It  shall  make  room  for  me; 
And  the  gates  of  its  water-streets 
Be  unbarred  before  my  fleets. 
I  say  it;  the  White  Czar, 
"Batyushka  !     Gosudar  ! 

"  And  the  Christian  shall  no  more 
Be  crushed,  as  heretofore, 
Beneath  thine  iron  rule, 

0  Sultan  of  Istamboul ! 

1  swear  it !  I  the  Czar, 

Batyushka  !     Gosudar !  " 


DELIA. 

SWEET  as  the  tender  fragrance  that  survives, 
When  martyred  flowers  breathe  out  their  little  lives, 
,  Sweet  as  a  song  that  once  consoled  our  pain, 
But  never  will  be  sung  to  us  again, 
Is  thy  remembrance.     Now  the  hour  of  rest 
Hath  come  to  thee.     Sleep,  darling;  it  is  best. 


A  BOOK  OF  SOOTSTETS.-PART  II. 


NATURE. 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor, 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,   though  more   splendid,  may  not  please 
him  more ; 

So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 


Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what  we 
know. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TARRYTOWN. 

HEKE  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 
In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his  fame  ! 
A  simple  stone,  with  but  a  date  and  name, 
Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 

The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 

Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  drv  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 
With  tints'that  brightened  and  were  multiplied. 


276 


ELIOT'S  OAK. —THE  POETS. 


How  sweet  a  life  was  his ;  how  sweet  a  death  ! 
Living,  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary  hours, 
Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to  cheer; 

Dying,  to  leave  a  memory  like  the  breath 
Of  summers  full  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere. 


ELIOT'S   OAK. 

THOU  ancient  oak  !  whose  mvriad  leaves  are  loud 
With  sounds  of  unintelligible  speech, 
Sounds  as  of  surges  on  a  shingly  beach, 
Or  multitudinous  murmurs  of  a  crowd  ; 

With  some  mysterious  gift  of  tongues  endowed, 
Thou  speakest  a  different  dialect  to  each ; 
To  me  a  language  that  no  man  can  teach, 
Of  a  lost  race,  long  vanished  like  a  cloud. 

For  underneath  thy  shade,  in  days  remote. 


Seated  like  Abraham  at  eventide 
Beneath  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  the  unknown 
Apostle  of  the  Indians,  Eliot,  wrote 
His  Bible  in  a  language  that  hath  died 
And  is  forgotten,  save  by  thee  alone. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

IT  is  the  Harvest  Moon !     On  gilded  vanes 
And  roofs  of  villages,  on  woodland  crests 
And  their  aerial  neighborhoods  of  nests 
Deserted,  on  the  curtained  window-panes 

Of  rooms  where  children  sleep,  on  country  lam-* 
And  harvest-fields,  its  mystic  splendor  rests ! 
Gone  are  the  birds  that  were  our  summer  gueMs. 
With  the  last  sheaves  return  the  laboring  wains ! 

All  things  are  symbols  :  the  external  shows 
Of  Nature  have  their  image  in  the  mind, 


As  flowers  and  fruits  and  falling  of  the  leaves ; 
The  song-birds  leave  us  at  the  summer's  close, 
Only  the  empty  nests  are  left  behind, 
And  pipings  of  the  quail  among  the  sheaves. 


THE  DESCENT  OF  THE  MUSES. 

NINE  sisters,  beautiful  in  form  and  face, 

Came  from  their  convent  on  the  shining  heights 
Of  Pierus,  the  mountain  of  delights, 
To  dwell  among  the  people  at  its  base. 

Then  seemed  the  world  to  change.     All  time  and 

space, 

Splendor  of  cloudless  days  and  starry  nights, 
And  men  and  manners,  and  all  sounds  and  sights, 
Had  a  new  meaning,  a  diviner  grace. 

Proud  were  these  sisters,  but  were  not  too  proud 
To  teach  in  schools  of  little  country  towns 
Science  and  song,  and  all  the  arts  that  please; 

So    that    while    housewives    span,     and    farmers 

ploughed, 

Their  comely  daughters,  clad  in  homespun  gowns, 
Learned  the  sweet  songs  of  the  Pierides. 


VENICE. 

WHITE  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy  nest 
So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 
Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and  feeds, 
As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy  guest ! 

White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 

By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt  and  weeds 

Lifting  thy  golden  filaments  and  seeds, 

Thy  sun-illumined  spires,  thy  crown  and  crest! 

White  phantom  city,  whose  untrodden  streets 
Are  rivers,  and  whose  pavements  are  the  shifting 
Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky; 

I  wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 

Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  uplifting 
In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 


THE  POETS. 

0  YE  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be  fled, 
And  ye,  O  living  Poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are  living,  if  neglect  can  kill, 

Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill, 


PARKER  CLEAVELAND.  — BOSTON. 


277 


With  drops  of  anguish  falling  fast  and  red 
From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon  your  head, 
Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfil  V" 

Yes  ;  for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  Song 
Have  something  in  them  so  divinely  sweet, 
It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong; 

Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 

Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat. 


PARKER  CLEAVELAND. 

WRITTEN  ON  REVISITING   BRUNSWICK   IN  THE  SUM 
MER   OF    1875. 

AMONG  the  many  lives  that  I  have  known, 
None  I  remember  more  serene  and  sweet, 
More  rounded  in  itself  and  more  complete, 
Than  his,  who  lies  beneath  this  funeral  stone. 

These  pines,  that  murmur  in  low  monotone, 
These  walks  frequented  by  scholastic  feet, 
Were  all  his  world;  but  in  this  calm  retreat 
For  him  the  Teacher's  chair  became  a  throne. 

With  fond  affection  memory  loves  to  dwell 
On  the  old  days,  when  his  example  made 
A  pastime  of  the  toil  of  tongue  and  pen ; 

And  now,  amid  the  groves  he  loved  so  well 

That  naught  could  lure  him  from  their  grateful 

shade, 

He   sleeps,   but  wakes  elsewhere,  for  God  hath 
said,  Amen  ! 


TO   THE  RIVER  RHONE. 

THOU  Royal  River,  born  of  sun  and  shower 
In  chambers  purple  with  the  Alpine  glow, 
Wrapped  in  the  spotless  ermine  of  the  snow 
And  rocked  by  tempests  !  — at  the  appointed  hour 

Forth,  like  a  steel-clad  horseman  from  a  lower, 
With  clang  and  clink  of  harness  dost  thou  go 
To  meet  thy  vassal  torrents,  that  below 
Rush  to  receive  thee  and  obey  thy  power. 

And  now  thou  movest  in  triumphal  march, 
A  king  among  the  rivers!  On  thy  way 
A  hundred  towns  await  and  welcome  thee; 

Bridges  uplift  for  thee  the  stately  arch, 

Vineyards  encircle  thee  with  garlands  gay, 
And  "fleets  attend  thy  progress  to  the  sea! 


THE  THREE   SILENCES   OF  MOLINOS. 

TO   JOHN    GHEENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

THREE  Silences  there  are:  the  first  of  speech, 
The  second  of  desire,  the  third  of  thought; 
This  is  the  lore  a  Spanish  monk,  distraught 
With  dreams  and  visions,  was  the  first  to  teach. 

These  Silences,  commingling  each  with  each, 
Made  up  the  perfect  Silence,  that  he  sought 
And  prayed  for,  and  wherein  at  times  he  caught 
Mysterious  sounds  from  realms  beyond  our  reach. 

O  thou,  whose  daily  life  anticipates 

The  life  to  come," and  in  whose  thought  and  word 
The  spiritual  world  preponderates, 

Hermit  of  Amesbury  !  thou  too  hast  heard 
Voices  and  melodies  from  beyond  the  gates, 
And  speakest  only  when  thy  soul  is  stirred  ! 


THE  TWO  RIVERS. 
I. 

SLOWLY  the  hour-hand  of  the  clock  moves  round ; 
So  slowly  that  no  human  eye  hath  power 


To  see  it  move !    Slowly  in  shine  or  shower 
The  painted  ship  above  it,  homeward  bound, 

Sails,  but  seems  motionless,  as  if  aground; 
Yet  both  arrive  at  last;  and  in  his  tower 
The  slumberous  watchman  wakes  and  strikes  the 

hour, 
A  mellow,  measured,  melancholy  sound. 

Midnight!  the  outpost  of  advancing  day! 
The  frontier  town  and  citadel  of  night! 
The  watershed  of  Time,  from  which  the  streams 

Of  Yesterday  and  To-morrow  take  their  way, 
One  to  the  land  of  promise  and  of  light, 
One  to  the  land  of  darkness  and  of  dreams ! 

II. 

0  River  of  Yesterday,  with  current  swift 

Through   chasms    descending,   and   soon    lost   to 

sight, 

I  do  not  care  to  follow  in  thy  flight 
The  faded  leaves  that  on  thy  bosom  drift! 

0  River  of  To-morrow,  I  uplift 

Mine  eves,  and  thee  I  follow,  as  the  night 
Wanes  into  morning,  and  the  dawning  light 
Broadens,  and  all  the  shadows  fade  and  shift! 

1  follow,  follow,  where  thy  waters  run 
Through  unfrequented,  unfamiliar  fields, 
Fragrant  with  flowers  and  musical  with  song; 

Still  follow,  follow;  sure  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  confident,  that  what  the  future  yields 
Will  be  the  right,  unless  myself  be  wrong. 

III. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  O  River. of  Yesterday, 
Through  chasms  of  darkness  to  the  deep  descend 
ing, 

I  heard  thee  sobbing  in  the  rain,  and  blending 
Thy  voice  with  other  voices  far  away. 

I  called  to  thee,  and  yet  thou  wouldst  not  stay, 
But  turbulent,  and  with  thyself  contending, 
And  torrent-like  thy  force  on  pebbles  spending, 
Thou  wouldst  not  listen  to  a  poet's  la}'. 

Thoughts,  like  a  loud  and  sudden  rush  of  wings, 
Regrets  and  recollections  of  things  past, 
With  hints  and  prophecies  of  things  to  be, 

And  inspirations,  which,  could  they  be  things. 
And  stay  with  us,  and  we  could  hold  them  fast, 
Were  our  good  angels,  —  these  I  owe  to  thee. 


And  thou,  O  River  of  To-morrow,  flowing 
Between  thv  narrow  adamantine  walls. 
But  beautiful,  and  white  with  waterfalls, 
And  wreaths  of   mist,  like   hands   the   pathway 
showing; 

I  hear  the  trumpets  of  the  morning  blowing, 
I  hear  thy  mighty  voice,  that  calls  and  tall-, 
And  see,  as  Ossian  saw  in  Morven's  halls, 
Mysterious   phantoms,    coming,    beckoning,    go 
ing! 

It  is  the  mystery  of  the  unknown 
That  fascinates  us;  we  are  children  still, 
Wayward  and  wistful;  with  one  hand  we  cling 

To  the  familiar  things  we  call  our  own, 
And  with  the  other,  resolute  of  will, 
Grope  in  the  dark  for  what  the  day  will  bring. 


BOSTON. 

ST.  BOTOLPH'S  TOWN!     Hither  across  the  plains 
And  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  in  garb  austere, 
There  came  a  Saxon  monk,  and  founded  here 
A  Priory,  pillaged  by  marauding  Danes, 

So  that  thereof  no  vestige  now  remains: 
Only  a  name,  that,  spoken  loud  and  clear, 
And  echoed  in  another  hemisphere. 
Survives  the  sculptured  walls  and  painted  panes. 


278 


ST.   JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE.  —  THE  BROKEN  OAR. 


St.  Botolph's  Town!     Far  over  leagues  of  land 
And  leagues  of  sea  looks  forth  its  noble  tower, 
And  far  around  the  chiming  bells  are  heard ; 

So  may  that  sacred  name  forever  stand 
A  landmark,  and  a  symbol  of  the  power 
That  lies  concentred  in  a  single  word. 


ST.  JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE. 

I  STAND  beneath  the  tree,  whose  branches  shade 
Thy  western  window,  Chapel  of  St.  John ! 
And  hear  its  leaves  repeat  their  benison 
On  him,  whose  hand  thy  stones  memorial  laid; 

Then  I  remember  one  of  whom  was  said 
In  the  world's  darkest  hour,  "  Behold  thy  son!  " 
And  see  him  living  still,  and  wandering  on 
And  waiting  for  the  advent  long  delayed. 

Not  only  tongues  pf  the  apostles  teach 

Lessons  of  love  and  light,  but  these  expanding 
And  sheltering  boughs  with  all  their  leaves  im 
plore, 

And  say  in  language  clear  as  human  speech, 
"The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understanding, 
Be  and  abide  with  you  forevermore!  " 


MOODS. 

OH  that  a  Song  would  sing  itself  to  me 

'  Out  of  the  heart  of  Nature,  or  the  heart 
Of  man,  the  child  of  Nature,  not  of  Art, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  salt  as  the  salt  sea, 

With  just  enough  of  bitterness  to  be 

A  medicine  to  this  sluggish  mood,  and  start 
The  life-blood  in  my  veins,  and  so  impart 
Healing  and  help  in  this  dull  lethargy  ! 

Alas  !  not  always  doth  the  breath  of  song 
Breathe  on  us.     It  is  like  the  wind  that  bloweth 
At  its  own  will,  not  ours,  nor  tarries  long  ; 

We  hear  the  sound  thereof,  but  no  man  knoweth 
From  whence  it  comes,  so  sudden  and  swift  and 

strong, 
Nor  whither  in  its  wayward  course  it  goeth. 


WOODSTOCK   PARK. 

HERE  in  a  little  rustic  hermitage 
Alfred  the  Saxon  King,  Alfred  the  Great, 
Postponed  the  cares  of  king-craft  to  translate 
The  Consolations  of  the  Roman  sage. 

Here  Geoffrey  Chaucer  in  his  ripe  old  age 
Wrote  the  unrivalled  Tales,  which  soon  or  late 
The  venturous  hand  that  strives  to  imitate 
Vanquished  must  fall  on  the  unfinished  page. 

Two  kings  were  they,  who  ruled  by  right  divine, 
And  both  supreme  ;  one  in  the  realm  of  Truth, 
One  in  the  realm  of  Fiction  and  of  Song. 

What  prince  hereditary  of  their  line, 
Uprising  in  the  strength  and  flush  of  youth, 
Their  glory  shall  inherit  aiid  prolong  V 


THE  FOUR  PRINCESSES  AT  WILNA. 

A  PHOTOGRAPH. 

SWEET  faces,  that  from  pictured  casements  lean 
As  from  a  castle  window,  looking  down 


On  some  gay  pageant  passing  through  a  town, 
Yourselves  the  fairest  figures  in  the  scene  ; 

With  what  a  gentle  grace,  with  what  serene 
Unconsciousness  ye  wear  the  triple  crown 
Of  youth  and  beauty  and  the  fair  renown 
Of  a  great  name,  that  ne'er  hath  tarnished  been ! 

From  your  soft  eyes,  so  innocent  and  sweet, 
Four  spirits,  sweet  and  innocent  as  they, 
Gaze  on  the  world  below,  the  sky  above ; 

Hark  !  there  is  some  one  singing  in  the  street; 
"Faith,  Hope,  and  Love!  these  three,"  he  seems 

to  say ; 
"These  three;  and  greatest  of  the  three  is  Love." 


HOLIDAYS. 

THE  holiest.of  all  holidays  are  those 
Kept  by  ourselves  in  silence  and  apart  ; 
The  secret  anniversaries  of  the  heart, 
When  the  full  river  of  feeling  overflows;  — 

The  happy  days  unclouded  to  their  close; 
The  sudden  joys  that  out  of  darkness  start 
As  flames  from  ashes;  swift  desires  that  dart 
Like   swallows    singing    down    each   wind    that 
blows ! 

White  as  the  gleam  of  a  receding  sail, 

White  as  a  cloud  that  floats  and  fades  in  air, 
White  as  the  whitest  lily  on  a  stream, 

These  tender  memories  are';  —  a  Fairy  Tale 
Of  some  enchanted  land  we  know  not  where, 
But  lovely  as  a  landscape  in  a  dream. 


WAPENTAKE. 


TO  ALFKED   TENNYSON. 

POET  !  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance  with  mine ; 
Not  as  a  knight,  who  on  the  listed  field 
Of  tourney  touched  his  adversary's  shield 
In  token  of  defiance,  but  in  sign 

Of  homage  to  the  mastery,  which  is  thine, 
In  English  song;  nor  will  I  keep  concealed, 
And  voiceless  as  a  rivulet  frost-congealed, 
My  admiration  for  thy  verse  divine. 

Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 

Who  craze  the  brain  \vith  their  delirious  dance, 
Art  thou,  O  sweet  historian  of  the  heart! 

Therefore  to  thee  the  laurel-leaves  belong, 
To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  art. 


THE  BROKEN  OAR. 

ONCE  upon  Iceland's  solitary  strand 
A  poet  wandered  with  his  book  and  pen, 
Seeking  some  final  word,  some  sweet  Amen, 
Wherewith  to  close  the  volume  in  his  hand. 

The  billows  rolled  and  plunged  upon  the  sand, 
The  circling  sea-gulls  swept  beyond  his  ken, 
And  from  the  parting  cloud-rack  now  and  then 
Flashed  the  red  sunset  over  sea  and  land. 

Then  by  the  billows  at  his  feet  was  tossed 
A  broken  oar;  and  carved  thereon  he  read, 
"  Oft  was  I  weary,  when  I  toiled  at  thee;  " 

And  like  a  man,  who  findeth  what  was  lost, 
He  wrote  the  words,  then  lifted  up  his  head, 
And  flung  his  useless  pen  into  the  sea. 


VIRGIL'S  FIRST  ECLOGUE. 


279 


TRANSLATION'S. 


VIRGIL'S  FIRST  ECLOGUE. 

MKLIBCEUS. 

TITYEUS,  thou,  in  the  sliade  of  a  spreading  beech- 
tree  reclining, 

Meditatest,  with  slender  pipe,  the  Muse  of  the  wood 
lands. 

We  our  country's  bounds  and  pleasant  pastures  re 
linquish, 

We  our  country  fly;  thou,  Tityrus,  stretched  in  the 
shadow, 

Teachest  the  woods  to  resound  with  the  name  of  the 
fair  Amaryllis. 

TITYRUS. 

O  Meliboeus,  a  god  for  us  this  leisure  created, 
For  he  will  be  unto  me  a  god  forever;  his  altar 
Oftentimes  shall  imbue  a  tender  lamb  from  our  sheep- 
folds. 
He,  my  heifers  to  wander  at  large,  and  myself,  as 

thou  seest, 

On  my  rustic  reed  to  play  what  I  will,  hath  per 
mitted. 

MELIBCEUS. 

Truly  I  envy  not,  I  marvel  rather;  on  all  sides 

In  all  the  fields  is  such  trouble.  Behold,  my  goats 
I  am  driving, 

Heartsick,  further  away;  this  one  scarce,  Tityrus, 
lead  I ; 

For  having  here  yeaned  twins  just  now  among  the 
dense  hazels, 

Hope  of  the  flock,  ah  me  !  on  the  naked  flint  she 
hath  left  them. 

Often  this  evil  to  me,  if  my  mind  had  not  been  in 
sensate, 

Oak-trees  stricken  by  heaven  predicted,  as  now  I 
remember : 

Often  the  sinister  crow  from  the  hollow  ilex  pre 
dicted. 

Nevertheless,  who  this  god  may  be,  0  Tityrus,  tell 
me. 

TITYRUS. 

O  Meliboeus,  the  city  that  they  call  Rome,  I  imag 
ined, 

Foolish  I!  to  be  like  this  of  ours,  where  often  -we 
shepherds 

Wonted  are  to  drive  down  of  our  ewes  the  delicate 
offspring. 

Thus  whelps  like  unto  dogs  had  I  known,  and  kids 
to  their  mothers, 

Thus  to  compare  great  things  with  small  had  I  been 
accustomed. 

But  this  among  other  cities  its  head  as  far  hath  ex 
alted 

As  the  cypresses  do  among  the  lissome  viburnums. 

MELIBCEUS. 

And  what  so  great  occasion  of  seeing  Rome  hath 
possessed  thee  V 

TITYRUS. 

Liberty,  which,  though  late,  looked  upon  me  in  my 

inertness, 
After  the  time  when  my  beard  fell  whiter  from  me 

in  shaving,  — 
Yet  she  looked  upon  me,  and  came  to  me  after  a 

long  while, 

Since  Amaryllis  possesses  and  Galatea  hath  left  me. 
For  I  will  even  confess  that  while  Galatea  possessed 

me 


Neither  care  of  my  flock  nor  hope  of  liberty  was 
there. 

Though  from  my  wattled  folds  there  went  forth  many 
a  victim, 

And  the  unctuous  cheese  was  pressed  for  the  city  un 
grateful, 

Never  did  my  right  hand  return  home  heavy  with 
money. 

MELIBCEUS. 

I  have  wondered  why  sad  thou  invokedst  the  gods, 
Amaryllis, 

And  for  whom  thou  didst  suffer  the  apples  to  hang 
on  the  branches  ! 

Tityrus  hence  was  absent !  Thee,  Tityrus,  even  the 
pine-trees, 

Thee,  the  very  fountains,  the  very  copses  were  call 
ing. 

TITYRUS. 

What  could  I  do?  No  power  had  I  to  escape  from 
my  bondage, 

Nor  had  I  power  elsewhere  to  recognize  gods  so  pro 
pitious. 

Here  I  beheld  that  youth,  to  whom  each  year,  Meli- 
bosus, 

During  twice  six  days  ascends  the  smoke  of  our 
altars. 

Here  first  gave  he  response  to  me  soliciting  favor : 

"Feed  as  before  your  heifers,  ye  boys,  and  yoke  up 
your  bullocks." 

MELIBCEUS. 

Fortunate  old  man  !  So  then  thy  fields  will  be  left 
thee, 

And  large  enough  for  thee,  though  naked  stone  and 
the  marish 

All  thy  pasture-lands  with  the  dreggy  rush  may 
encompass. 

No  unaccustomed  food  thy  gravid  ewes  shall  en 
danger, 

Nor  of  the  neighboring  flock  the  dire  contagion  in 
fect  them. 

Fortunate  old  man  !     Here  among  familiar  rivers, 

And  these  sacred  founts,  shall  thou  take  the  shad 
owy  coolness. 

On  this  side,  a  hedge  along  the  neighboring  cross 
road, 

Where  Hyblaean  bees  ever  feed  on  the  flower  of  the 
willow, 

Often  with  gentle  susurrus  to  fall  asleep  shall  per 
suade  thee. 

Yonder,  beneath  the  high  rock,  the  pruner  shall  sing 
to  the  breezes, 

Nor  meanwhile  shall  thy  heart's  delight,  the  hoarse 
wood-pigeons, 

Nor  the  turtle-clove  cease  to  mourn  from  aerial  elm- 
trees. 


Therefore  the  .'.gile  stags  shall  sooner  feed  in  the 
ether, 

And  the  billows  leave  the  fishes  bare  on  the  sea 
shore, 

Sooner,  the  border-lands  of  both  overpassed,  shall 
the  exiled 

Parthian  drink  of  the  Saone,  or  the  German  drink 
of  the  Tigris, 

Than  the  face  of  him  shall  glide  away  from  my 
bosom ! 


280 


OVID  IN  EXILE. 


MELIB<EUS. 

But  we  hence  shall  go,  a  part  to  the  thirsty  Africs, 
Part  to  Scythia  come,  and  the  rapid  Cretan  Oaxes, 
And  to  the  Britons  from  all  the  universe  utterly 

sundered. 
Ah,  shall  I  ever,  a  long  time  hence,  the  bounds  of 

my  country 
And  the   roof  of   my  lowly  cottage  covered  with 

greensward 
Seeing,  with   wonder  behold,  —  my   kingdoms,  a 

handful  of  wheat-ears  !' 
Shall  an  impious  soldier  possess  these  lands  newly 

cultured, 
And  these  fields  of  corn  a  barbarian  V    Lo,  whither 

discord 
Us  wretched  people  hath  brought !  for  whom  our 

fields  we  have  planted  ! 
Graft,  Meliboeus,  thy  pear-trees,  now,  put  in  order 

thy  vineyards. 

Go,  my  goats,  go  hence,  my  flocks  so  happy  afore 
time. 

Never  again  henceforth  outstretched  in  my  verdur 
ous  cavern 
Shall  I  behold  you  afar  from  the  bushy  precipice 

hanging." 
Songs  no  more  shall  I  sing  ;  not  with  me,  ye  goats, 

as  your  shepherd, 
Shall  ye  browse  on  the  bitter  willow  or  blooming 

laburnum. 


Nevertheless,  this  night  together  with  me  canst  thou 
rest  thee 

Here  on  the  verdant  leaves;  for  us  there  are  mel 
lowing  apples, 

Chestnuts  soft  to  the  touch,  and  clouted  cream  in 
abundance ; 

And  the  high  roofs  now  of  the  villages  smoke  in  the 
distance, 

And  from  the  lofty  mountains  are  falling  larger  the 
shadows. 


OVID  IN  EXILE, 

AT   TOMIS,  IN   BESSARABIA,   NEAR  THE  MOUTHS  OF 
THE  DANUBE. 

TRISTIA,  Book  III.,  Elegy  X. 

SHOULD  any  one  there  in  Rome  remember  Ovid  the 

exile, 

And,  without  me,  my  name  still  in  the  city  sur 
vive  ; 

Tell  him  that  under  stars  which  never  set  in  the 

ocean 
I  am  existing  still,  here  in  a  barbarous  land. 

Fierce   Sarmatians  encompass    me  round,   and  the 

Bessi  and  Getae  ; 

Names  how  unworthy  to  be  sung  by  a  genius 
like  mine  ! 

Yet  when   the  air  is  warm,  intervening  Ister  de 
fends  us  : 

He,  as  he  flows,  repels  inroads  of  war  with  his 
waves. 

But  when  the  dismal  winter  reveals  its  hideous  as 
pect, 

When  all  the  earth  becomes  white  with  a  marble- 
like  frost; 

And  when  Boreas  is  loosed,  and  the  snow  hurled 

under  Arcturus. 

Then  these  nations,  in  sooth,  shudder  and  shiver 
with  cold. 


Deep  lies  the  snow,  and  neither  the   sun  nor  the 

rain  can  dissolve  it; 
Boreas  hardens  it  still,  makes  it  forever  remain. 

Hence,  ere  the  first  has  melted  awav,  another  suc 
ceeds  it, 
And  two  years  it  is  wont,  in  many  places,  to  lie. 

And   so    great   is   the   power  of    the    North-wind 

awakened,  it  levels 

Lofty   towers   with   the    ground,    roofs   uplifted 
bears  off. 

Wrapped  in  skins,  and  with  trousers  sewed,  thev 

contend  with  the  weather, 
And  their  faces  alone  of  the  whole  body  are  seen. 

Often  their    tresses,   when   shaken,    with   pendent 

icicles  tinkle, 

And  their  whitened  beards  shine  with  the  gather 
ing  frost. 

Wines  consolidate  stand,  preserving  the  form  of  the 

vessels ; 

No   more   draughts  of  wine,  —  pieces  presented 
they  drink. 

Why  should  I  tell  you  how  all  the  rivers  are  frozen 

and  solid, 
And  from  out  of  the  lake  frangible  water  is  dug  ? 

Ister,  —  no   narrower  stream   than    the  river  that 

bears  the  papyrus,  — 

Which    through    its    many   mouths   mingles   its 
waves  with  the  deep ; 

Ister,  with  hardening  winds,  congeals  its  cerulean 

waters, 
Under  a  roof  of  ice  winding  its  way  to  the  sea. 

There  where  ships  have  sailed,  men  go  on  foot ;  and 

the  billows, 

Solid  made  by  the  frost,  hoof-beats  of  horses  in 
dent. 

Over  unwonted  bridges,  with  water  gliding  beneath 

them, 
The  Sarmatian  steers  drag  their  barbarian  carts. 

Scarcely  shall  I  be  believed ;  yet  when  naught  is 

gained  by  a  falsehood, 

Absolute  credence  then   should   to   a  witness  be 
given. 

I  have  beheld  the  vast  Black  Sea  of  ice  all  com 
pacted, 
And  a  slippery  crust  pressing  its  motionless  tides. 

'T  is  not  enough  to  have  seen,  I  have  trodden  this 

indurate  ocean ; 

Dry   shod   passed   my   foot  over   its   uppermost 
wave. 

If  thou  hadst  had  of  old  such  a  sea  as  this  is,  Lean- 

der! 

Then  thy  death  had  not  been  charged  as  a  crime 
to  the  Strait. 

Nor  can  the  curved  dolphins  uplift  themselves  from 

the  water; 

All  their  struggles  to  rise  merciless  winter  pre 
vents  ; 

And  though  Boreas  sound  with  roar  of  wings  in 

commotion, 
In  the  blockaded  gulf  never  a  wave  will  there  be  ; 

And  the  ships  will  stand  hemmed  in  by  the  frost, 

as  in  marble, 

Nor  will  the  oar  have  power  through  the   stiff 
waters  to  cleave. 


OVID  IX  EXILE. 


281 


Fast  bound  in  the  ice  have  I  seen  the  fishes  adher 
ing) 

Yet  notwithstanding  this  some  of  them  still  were 
alive. 

Hence,  if  the  savage  strength  of  omnipotent  Boreas 

freezes 

Whether  the  salt-sea  wave,  whether  the  refluent 
stream,  — 

Straightway  —  the  Ister  made  level  by  arid  blasts 

of  the  North-wind  — 

Conies  the  barbaric  foe  borne  on  his  swift-footed 
steed ; 


Now  the   boys  and   the  laughing  girls   the  violet 

gather, 

Which  the  fields  bring  forth,  nobody  sowing  the 
seed. 

Now  the  meadows  are  blooming  with  flowers  of  va 
rious  colors, 
And  with  untaught  throats  carol   the   garrulous 


Now  the  swallow,  to  shun  the  crime  of  her  merciless 

mother, 

Under  the   rafters  builds   cradles  and  dear  little 
homes ; 


Foe,  that  powerful  made  by  his  steed  and  his  far-   And  the  blade  that  lay  hid,  covered  up  in  the  fur- 
flying  arrows.  rows  of  Ceres, 

All   the   neighboring   land    void    of  inhabitants  ;      Now  from   the   tepid   ground  raises  its   delicate 
makes.  head. 

Some   take  flight,  and  none  being  left   to   defend    Where  there   is  ever  a   vine,    the  bud  shoots  forth 
their  possessions,  from  the  tendrils, 


Unprotected,  their  goods  pillage  and  plunder  be 
come  ; 

Cattle  and  creaking  carts,  the  little  wealth  of  the 

country, 
And  what  riches  beside  indigent  peasants  possess. 

Some   as   captives   are   driven  along,    their  hands 

bound  behind  them, 

Looking   backward   in  vain   toward  their   Lares 
and  lands. 

I 
Others,   transfixed  with  barbed  arrows,    in  agony 

perish. 

For  the  swift  arrow-heads  all  have  in  poison  been 
dipped. 

What  they  cannot  carry  or  lead  away  they  demol- 


But  from  the  Getic  shore  distant  afar  is  the  vine! 

Where  there  is  ever  a  tree,  on  the  tree  the  branches 

are  swelling. 
But  from  the  Getic  land  distant  afar  is  the  tree  ! 

Now  it  is  holiday  there  in  Rome,  and  to  games  in 

due  order 
Give  place  the  windy  wars  of  the  vociferous  bar. 

Now  they  are  riding  the  horses;  with   light  arms 

now  they  are  playing. 

Now  with  the  ball,  and  now  round  rolls  the  swift- 
flying  hoop  : 

Now,   when  the  young  athlete   with  flowing  oil   is 

anointed, 
He  in  the  Virgin's  Fount  bathes,  overwearied,  his 


limbs. 
And  the  hostile  flames  burn  up  the  innocent  cots. 

Thrives  the  stage;  and  applause,  with  voices  at  va- 
Even  when  there  is  peace,  the  fear  of  war  is  im-  riance, 'thunders, 

pending;  And  the  Theatres  three  for  the  three  Forums  re- 

Xone,  with  the  ploughshare  pressed,  furrows  the  sound, 

soil  any  more. 

!  Four  times  happy  is  he,  and  times  without  number 
Either  this  region  sees,  or  fears  a  foe  that  it  sees  not,  is  happy, " 

And  the  sluggish  land  slumbers  in  utter  neglect.         Who  the  city  of  Home,  uninterdicted,  enjoys. 

No  sweet  grape  lies  hidden  here  in  the  shade  of  its    But  all  I  see  is  the  snow  in  the  vernal  sunshine  dis- 


vine-leaves, 
No  fermenting  must  fills  and  o'erflows  the  deep 


Apples  the  region  denies  ;  nor  would  Acontius  have 

found  here 

Aught  upon  which  to  write  words  for  his  mistress 
to  read. 

Naked  and  barren  plains  without  leaves  or  trees  we 

behold  here,  — 

Places,  alas  !    unto  which  no  happy  man  would 
repair. 

Since  then  this  mighty  orb  lies  open  so  wide  upon 

all  sides, 
Has  this  region  been  found  only  my  prison  to  be  ? 


TRISTIA,  Book  III.,  Elegy  XII. 

Xow  the  zephyrs  diminish  the  cold,  and  the  year 

being  ended, 
Winter  M;eotian  seems  longer  than  ever  before ; 


solving, 

And  the  waters  no  more  delved  from  the  indurate 
lake. 

Nor  is  the  sea  now   frozen,  nor  as  before  o'er  the 

Ister 
Comes  the  Sarmatian  boor  driving  his  stridulous 


Hitherward,    nevertheless,  some   keels  already   are 

steering, 
And  on  this  Pontic  shore  alien  vessels  will  be. 

Eagerlv  shall  I  run  to   the  sailor,  and,  having  sa 
luted, 

Who   he  may   be,    I   shall  ask;   wherefore   and 
whence  he  hath  come. 

Strange  indeed  will  it  be,  if  he  come  not  from  re 
gions  adjacent, 

And  incautious  unless  ploughing  the  neighboring 
sea. 

Rarely  a  mariner  over  the  deep  from  Italy  passes. 

Rarely  he  comes  to  these  shores,  wholly  of  har- 
And  the   Ram    that   bore   unsafely  the  burden  of ;  bors  devoid. 

Helle 

Now  makes  the  hours  of  the  day  equal  with  those  |  Whether  he  knoweth  Greek,  or  whether  in  Latin  he 
of  the  night.  speaketh, 


282 


ON  THE  TERRACE  OF  THE  AIGALADES.  —  BARREGES. 


Surely  on  this  account  he  the  more  welcome  wil 
be. 

Also  perchance  from  the  mouth  of  the  Strait  and  the 

waters  Propontic, 
Unto  the  steady  South-wind,  some  one  is  spread 
ing  his  sails. 

Whosoever  he  is,  the  news  he  can  faithfully  tell  me, 

Which  may  become  a  part  and  an  approach  to  the 

truth. 

He,  I  pray,  may  be  able  to  tell  me  the  triumphs  oi 

Caesar, 

Which  he  has  heard  of,  and  vows  paid  to  the  La- 
tian  Jove ; 

And  that  thy  sorrowful  head,  Germania,  thou,  the 

rebellious, 

Under  the  feet,  at  last,  of  the  Great  Captain  hast 
laid. 

Whoso  shall  tell  me   these  things,  that  not  to  have 

seen  will  afflict  me, 
Forthwith  unto  niy  house  welcomed  as  guest  shall 
he  be. 

Woe  is  me  !  Is  the  house  of  Ovid  in  Scythian  lands 

now? 

And  doth  punishment  now  give  me  its  place  for 
a  home  V 

Grant,  ye  gods,  that  Caesar  make  this  not  my  house 

and  my  homestead, 
But  decree  it  to  be  only  the  inn  of  my  pain. 


ON  THE  TERRACE  OF  THE  AIGALADES. 

FROM   THE   FEEXCH   OF   M^RY. 

FKOM  this  high  portal,  where  upsprings 
The  rose  to  touch  our  hands  in  play, 

We  at  a  glance  behold  three  things,  — 
The  Sea,  the  Town,  and  the  Highway. 

And  the  Sea  says  :  My  shipwrecks  fear; 

I  drown  my  best  friends  in  the  deep; 
And  those  who  braved  my  tempests  here 

Among  my  sea-weeds  lie  asleep ! 

The  Town  says:  I  am  filled  and  fraught 
With  tumult  and  with  smoke  and  care; 

My  days  with  toil  are  overwrought, 
And  in  my  nights  I  gasp  for  air. 

The  Highway  says:  My  wheel-tracks  guide 
To  the  pale  climates  of  the  North  ; 

Where  my  last  milestone  stands  abide 
The  people  to  their  death  gone  forth. 

Here,  in  the  shade,  this  life  of  ours, 

Full  of  delicious  air,  glides  by 
Amid  a  multitude  of  flowers 

As  countless  as  the  stars  on  high  ; 

These  red-tiled  roofs,  this  fruitful  soil, 
Bathed  with  an  azure  all  divine, 

Where  springs  the  tree  that  gives  us  oil, 
The  grape  that  giveth  us  the  wine ; 

Beneath  these  mountains  stripped  of  trees, 
Whose  tops  with  flowers  are  covered  o'er, 

Where  spring-time  of  the  Hesperides 
Begins,  but  endeth  nevermore ; 

Under  these  leafy  vaults  and  walls, 
That  unto  gentle  sleep  persuade; 

This  rainbow  of  the  waterfalls, 

Of  mingled  mist  and  sunshine  made ; 


Upon  these  shores,  where  all  invites, 
We  live  our  languid  life  apart ; 

This  air  is  that  of  life's  delights, 
The  festival  of  sense  and  heart ; 

This  limpid  space  of  time  prolong, 

Forget  to-morrow  in  to-day, 
And  leave  unto  the  passing  throng 

The  Sea,  the  Town,  and  the  Highway 


TO  MY  BROOKLET. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  DUCIS. 

THOU  brooklet,  all  unknown  to  song, 
Hid  in  the  covert  of  the  wood ! 

Ah,  yes,  like  thee  I  fear  the  throng, 
Like  thee  I  love  the  solitude. 

O  brooklet,  let  my  sorrows  past 
Lie  all  forgotten  in  their  graves, 

Till  in  my  thoughts  remain  at  last 
Only  thy  peace,  thy  flowers,  thy  waves. 

The  lily  by  thy  margin  waits;  — 
The  nightingale,  the  marguerite  ; 

In  shadow  here  he  meditates 

His  nest,  his  love,  his  music  sweet. 

Near  thee  the  self-collected  soul 
Knows  naught  of  error  or  of  crime  ; 

Thy  waters,  murmuring  as  they  roll, 
Transform  his  musings  into  rhyme. 

Ah,  when,  on  bright  autumnal  eves, 
Pursuing  still  thy  course,  shall  I 

List  the  soft  shudder  of  the  leaves, 
And  hear  the  lapwing's  plaintive  cry  ? 


BARREGES. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  LEFRANC  DE  POMPIGNAN. 

I  LEAVE  you,  ye  cold  mountain  chains, 
Dwelling  of  warriors  stark  and  frore ! 
You,  may  these  eyes  behold  no  more, 

Save  on  the  horizon  of  our  plains. 

Vanish,  ye  frightful,  gloomy  views  ! 

Ye  rocks  that  mount  up  to  the  clouds! 

Of  skies,  enwrapped  in  misty  shrouds, 
Impracticable  avenues! 

Ye  torrents,  that  with  might  and  main 

Break  pathways  through  the  the  rocky  walls! 
With  your  terrific  waterfalls 

Fatigue  no  more  my  weary  brain ! 

Arise,  ye  landscapes  full  of  charms, 

Arise,  ye  pictures  of  delight! 

Ye  brooks,  that  water  in  your  flight 
The  flowers  and  harvests  of  our  farms ! 

You  I  perceive,  ye  meadows  green, 
Where  the  Garonne  the  lowland  fills, 
Not  far  from  that  long  chain  of  hills, 

With  intermingled  vales  between. 

Yon  wreath  of  smoke,  that  mounts  so  high, 
Methinks  from  my  own  hearth  must  come ; 
With  speed,  to  that  beloved  home, 

Fly,  ye  too  lazy  coursers,  fly ! 

And  bear  me  thither,  where  the  soul 

In  quiet  may  itself  possess, 

Where  all  things  soothe  the  mind's  distress, 
Where  all  things  teach  me  and  console. 


FORSAKEN.  -  SEVEN  SONNETS. 


283 


FORSAKEN. 


FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

SOMETHING  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish, 
Must  love  and  joy  and  sorrow  learn, 

Something  with  passion  clasp,  or  perish, 
And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn. 

So  to  this  child  my  heart  is  clinging, 
And  its  frank  eyes,  with  look  intense, 

Me  from  a  world  of  sin  are  bringing 
Back  to  a  world  of  innocence. 

Disdain  must  thou  endure  forever; 

Strong  may  thy  heart  in  danger  be  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  fail !  but  ah,  be  never 

False  as  thy  father  was  to  me. 

Never  will  I  forsake  thee,  faithless, 
And  thou  thy  mother  ne'er  forsake, 


Until  her  lips  are  white  and  breathless, 
Until  in  death  her  eves  shall  break. 


ALLAH. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MAHLMANN. 

ALLAH  gives  light  in  darkness, 

Allah  gives  rest  in  pain, 
Cheeks  that  are  white  with  weeping 

Allah  paints  red  again. 

The  flowers  and  the  blossoms  wither, 
Years  vanish  with  flying  feet; 

But  my  heart  will  live' on  forever, 
That  here  in  sadness  beat. 

Gladly  to  Allah's  dwelling 
Yonder  would  I  take  flight ; 

There  will  the  darkness  vanish, 
There  will  my  eyes  have  sight. 


SEVEST  SONNETS 

AND   A   CANZONE,   FROM   THE   ITALIAN   OF   MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

[The  following  translations  are  from  the  poems  of  Michael  Angelo  as  revised  by  his  nephew  Michael  Angelo  the 
Younger,  and  were  made  before  the  publication  of  the  original  text  by  Guasti.] 


THE   ARTIST. 

NOTHING  the  greatest  artist  can  conceive 
That  every  marble  block  doth  not  confine 
Within  itself;  and  only  its  design 
The  hand  that  follows  intellect  can  achieve. 

The  ill  I   flee,  the  good  that  I  believe, 
In  thee,  fair  lady,  lofty  and  divine, 
Thus  hidden  lie  ;  and  so  thatTleath  be  mine 
Art,  of  desired  success,  doth  me  bereave. 

Love  is  not  guilty,  then,  nor  thy  fair  face, 
Nor  fortune,  cruelty,  nor  great  disdain, 
Of  my  disgrace,  nor  chance  nor  destiny, 

If  in  thy  heart  both  death  and  love  rind  place 
At  the  same  time,  and  if  my  humble  brain, 
Burning,  can  nothing  draw  but  death  from  thee. 


II. 


NOT  without  fire  can  any  workman  mould 

The  iron  to  his  preconceived  design, 

Nor  can  the  artist  without  fire  refine 

And  purify  from  all  its  dross  the  gold  ; 
Nor  can  revive  the  phrenix,  we  are  told, 

Except  by  fire.     Hence  if  such  death  be  mine 

I  hope  to  rise  again  with  the  divine, 

Whom   death  augments,  and  time  cannot  make 

old. 
0  sweet,  sweet  death!     O  fortunate  fire  that  burns 

Within  me  still  to  renovate  my  days. 

Though  I  am  almost  numbered  with  the  dead! 
If  by  its  nature  unto  heaven  returns 

This  element,  me,  kindled  in  its  blaze, 

Will  it  bear  upward  when  my  life  is  fled. 


III. 


YOUTH   AND   AGE. 

OH  give  me  back  the  days  when  loose  and  free 
To  my  blind  passion  were  the  curb  and  rein, 
Oh  give  me  back  the  angelic  face  again, 
With  which  all  virtue  buried  seems  to  be  ! 

Oh  give  my  panting  footsteps  back  to  me. 

That  are  in  age  so  slow  and  fraught  with  pain, 
And  fire  and  moisture  in  the  heart  and  brain, 
If  thou  wouldst  have  me  burn  and  weep  for  thee! 

If  it  be  true  thou  livest  alone,  Amor,    , 
On  the  sweet-bitter  tears  of  human  hearts, 
In  an  old  man  thou  canst  not  wake  desire; 

Souls  that  have  almost  reached  the  other  shore 
Of  a  diviner  love  should  feel  the  darts, 
And  be  as  tinder  to  a  holier  fire. 


IV. 


THE  course  of  my  long  life  hath  reached  at  last, 
In  fragile  bark  o'er  a  tempestuous  sea, 
The  common  harbor,  where  must  rendered  be 
Account  of  all  the  actions  of  the  past. 

The  impassioned  phantasy,  that,  vague  and  vast, 
Made  art  an  idol  and  a  king  to  me, 
Was  an  illusion,  and  but  vanity 
Were  the  desires  that  lured  me  and  harassed. 
|  The  dreams  of  love,  that  were  so  sweet  of  yore, 
What  are  they  now,  when   two  deaths  may  1 

mine,  — 
One  sure,  and  one  forecasting  its  alarms'? 

Painting  and  sculpture  satisfy  no  more 
The  soul  now  turning  to  the  Love  Divine, 
That  oped,  to  embrace  us,  on  the  cross  its  arms. 


284 


SEVEN  SONNETS. 


V. 


TO   ATITTORIA   COLONNA. 

LADY,  how  can  it  chance  —  yet  this  we  see 
In  long  experience  —  that  will  longer  last 
A  living  image  carved  from  quarries  vast 
Than  its  own  maker,  who  dies  presently? 

Cause  yieldeth  to  effect  if  this  so  be, 
And  even  Nature  is  by  Art  surpassed; 
This  know  I,  who  to  Art  have  given  the  past, 
But  see  that  Time  is  breaking  faith  with  me. 

Perhaps  on  both  of  us  long  life  can  I 
Either  in  color  or  in  stone  bestow, 
By  now  portraj'ing  each  in  look  and  mien; 

So  that  a  thousand  years  after  we  die, 
How  fair  thou  wast,  and  I  how  full  of  woe, 
And  wherefore  I  so  loved  thee,  may  be  seen. 


VI. 


TO   VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

WHEN  the  prime  mover  of  my  many  sighs 
Heaven  took  through  death  from"  out  her  earthly 

place, 

Nature,  that  never  made  so  fair  a  face, 
Remained  ashamed,  and  tears  were  in  all  eyes. 

0  fate,  unheeding  my  impassioned  cries ! 
O  hopes  fallacious !  O  thou  spirit  of  grace, 
Where  art  thou  now?    Earth  holds  in  its  embrace 
Thy  lovely  limbs,  thy  holy  thoughts  the  skies. 

Vainly  did  cruel  death  attempt  to  stay 
The  rumor  of  thy  virtuous  renown, 
That  Lethe's  waters  could  not  wash  away ! 

A  thousand  leaves,  since  he  hath  stricken  thee  down, 
Speak  of  thee,  nor  to  thee  could  Heaven  convey, 
Except  through  death,  a  refuge  and  a  crown. 


VII. 


WHAT  should  be  said  of  him  cannot  be  said; 

By  too  great  splendor  is  his  name  attended  ; 

To  blame  is  easier  those  who  him  offended, 

Than  reach  the  faintest  glory  round  him  shed. 
This  man  descended  to  the  doomed  and  dead 

For  our  instruction ;  then  to  God  ascended  ; 

Heaven   opened  wide   to   him  its   portals   splen 
did, 

Who   from    his  countrv's.    closed    against   him. 

fled. 
Ungrateful  land !     To  its  own  prejudice 

Nurse  of  his  fortunes;  and  this  showeth  well 

That  the  most  perfect  most  of  grief  shall  see. 
Among  a  thousand  proofs  let  one  suffice, 

That  as  his  exile  hath  no  parallel, 

Ne'er  walked  the  earth  a  greater  man  than  he. 


VIII. 


AH  me!  ah  me!  when  thinking  of  the  years, 
The  vanished  years,  alas,  I  do  not  find 
Among  them  all  one  day  that  was  my  own ! 
Fallacious  hopes,  desires  of  the  unknown, 
Lamenting,  loving,  burning,  and  in  tears, 
(For  human  passions  all  have  stirred  my  mind), 
Have  held  me,  now  I  feel  and  know,  confined 
Both  from  the  true  and  good  still  far  away. 
I  perish  day  by  day ; 
The    sunshine    fails,    the    shadows    grow    more 

dreary, 
And  I  am  near  to  fall,  infirm  and  weary. 


DEDICATION.— FROM   MY   ARM-CHAIR. 


285 


ULTIMA    THULE. 


DEDICATION. 

TO    G.    W.    G. 

WITH  favoring  winds,  o'er  sunlit  seas, 
We  sailed  for  the  Hesperides, 
The  land  where  golden  apples  grow; 
But  that,  ah !  that  was  long  ago. 

How  far,  since  then,  the  ocean  streams 
Have  swept  us  from  that  land  of  dreams. 
That  land  of  fiction  and  of  truth, 
The  lost  Atlantis  of  our  youth ! 

Whither,  ah,  whither?    Are  not  these 
The  tempest-haunted  Hebrides, 
Where  sea-gulls  scream,  and  breakers  roar, 
And  wreck  and  sea-weed  line  the  shore? 

Ultima  Thule !     Utmost  Isle ! 
Here  in  thy  harbors  for  a  while 
We  lower  our  sails ;  a  while  we  rest 
From  the  unending,  endless  quest. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

DEAD  he  lay  among  his  books ! 
The  peace  o*f  God  was  in  his  looks. 

As  the  statues  in  the  gloom 
Watch  o'er  Maximilian's  tomb,1 

So  those  volumes  from  their  shelves 
Watched  him,  silent  as  themselves. 

Ah !  his  hand  will  nevermore 
Turn  their  storied  pages  o'er ; 

Nevermore  his  lips  repeat 
Songs  of  theirs,  however  sweet. 

Let  the  lifeless  body  rest! 

He  is  gone,  who  was  its  guest ; 

• 

Gone,  as  travellers  haste  to  leave 
An  inn,  nor  tarry  until  eve. 

Traveller!  in  what  realms  afar, 
In  what  planet,  in  what  star, 

In  what  vast,  aerial  space, 
Shines  the  light  upon  thy  face  ? 

In  what  gardens  of  delight 
Rest  thy  weary  feet  to-night  ? 

Poet!  thou,  whose  latest  verse 
Was  a  garland  on  thy  hearse; 

Thou  hast  sung,  with  organ  tone, 
In  Deukalion's  life,  thine  own  : 

On  the  ruins  of  the  Past 
Blooms  the  perfect  flower  at  last. 

Friend !  but  yesterday  the  bells 
Rang  for  thee  their  loud  farewells; 

And  to-day  they  toll  for  thee, 
Lying  dead  beyond  the  sea ; 

Lying  dead  among  thy  books, 
The  peace  of  God  m  all  thy  looks . 

1  In  the  Hofkirche  at  Innsbruck. 


THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATJb, 

Is  it  so  far  from  thee 
Thou  canst  no  longer  see, 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 
That  old  man  desolate, 
Weeping  and  wailing  sore 
For  his  son,  who  is  no  more? 
0  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

Is  it  so  long  ago 
That  cry  of  human  woe 
From  the  walled  city  came, 
Calling  on  his  dear  name, 
That  it  lias  died  away 
In  the  distance  of  to-day  ? 
0  Absalom,  my  son ! 

There  is  no  far  or  near, 
There  is  neither  there  nor  here. 
There  is  neither  soon  nor  late. 
In  that  Chamber  over  the  Gate. 
Nor  any  long  ago 
To  that  cry  of  human  woe, 
0  Absalom,  my  son ! 

From  the  ages  that  are  past 
The  voice  sounds  like  a  blast, 
Over  seas  that  wreck  and  drown, 
Over  tumult  of  traffic  and  town; 
And  from  ages  yet  to  be 
Come  the  echoes  back  to  me, 
O  Absalom,  my  son ! 

Somewhere  at  every  hour 
The  watchman  on  the  tower 
Looks  forth,  and  sees  the  fleet 
Approach  of  the  hurrying  feet 
Of  messengers,  that  b'ear 
The  tidings  of  despair. 
O  Absalom,  my  son ! 

He  goes  forth  from  the  door, 
Who  shall  return  no  more. 
With  him  our  joy  departs; 
The  light  goes  out  in  our  hearts ; 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate 
We  sit  disconsolate. 
O  Absalom,  my  son ! 

That 't  is  a  common  grief 
Bringeth  but  slight  relief  ; 
Ours  is  the  bitterest  loss, 
Ours  is  the  heaviest  cross  ; 
And  forever  the  cry  will  be, 
"Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee, 
O  Absalom,  my  son!  " 


FROM   MY  ARM-CHAIR. 

TO   THE    CHILDREN    OF   CAMBRIDGE, 

Who  presented  to  me,  on  my  Seventy-second  Birthday. 
February  27,  1879,  this  Chair  made  from  the  \Vood  of 
the  Village  Blacksmith's  Chestnut-Tree. 

AM  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  mv  own 

This  splendid  ebon  throne  '? 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 

Can  I  proclaim  it  mine  ? 

Only,  perhaps,  by  right  divine  of  song 

It  may  to  me  belong; 
Only  because  the  spreading  chestnut -tree 

Of  old  was  sung  by  me. 


286 


JUGURTHA.  — THE  IRON  PEN. 


Well  I  remember  it  in  all  its  prime, 

When  in  the  summer-time 
The  affluent  foliage  of  its  branches  made 

A  cavern  of  cool  shade. 

There,  by  the  blacksmith's  forge,  beside  the  street, 

Its  blossoms  white  and  sweet 
Enticed  the  bees,  until  it  seemed  alive, 

And  murmured  like  a  hive. 

And  when  the  winds  of  autumn,  with  a  shout, 

Tossed  its  great  arms  about, 
The  shining  chestnuts,  bursting  from  the  sheath, 

Dropped  to  the  ground  beneath. 

And  now  some  fragments  of  its  branches  bare, 

Shaped  as  a  stately  chair, 
Have  by  my  hearthstone  found  a  home  at  last, 

And  whisper  of  the  past. 

The  Danish  king  could  not  in  all  his  pride 

Repel  the  ocean  tide, 
But,  seated  in  this  chair,  I  can  in  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  Time. 

I  see  again,  as  one  in  vision  sees, 

The  blossoms  and  the  bees, 
And  hear  the  children's  voices  shout  and  call, 

And  the  brown  chestnuts  fall. 

I  see  the  smithy  with  its  fires  aglow, 

I  hear  the  bellows  blow, 
And  the  shrill  hammers  on  the  anvil  beat 

The  iron  white  with  heat ! 

And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made  for  me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 
And  to  my  more  than  three-score  years  and  ten 

Brought  back  my  youth  again. 

The  heart  hath  its  own  memory,  like  the  mind, 

And  in  it  are  enshrined 
The  precious  keepsakes,  into  which  is  wrought 

The  giver's  loving  thought. 

Only  your  love  and  your  remembrance  could 

Give  life  to  this  dead  wood, 
And  make  these  branches,  leafless  now  so  long, 

Blossom  again  in  song. 


JUGURTHA. 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 
Cried  the  African  monarch,  the  splendid, 

As  down  to  his  death  in  the  hollow 
Dark  dungeons  of  Rome  he  descended, 
Uncrowned,  unthroned,  unattended; 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo ! 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo ! 

Cried  the  Poet,  unknown,  unbefriended, 

As  the  vision,  that  lured  him  to  follow, 
With  the  mist  and  the  darkness  blended, 
And  the  dream  of  his  life  was  ended; 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo ! 


THE  IRON  PEN, 

Made  from  a  fetter  of  Bonnivard,  the  Prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon  ;  the  handle  of  wood  from  the  Frigate  Constitu 
tion,  and  bound  with  a  circlet  of  gold,  inset  with  three 
precious  stones  from  Siberia,  Ceylon,  and  Maine. 

I  THOUGHT  this  Pen  would  arise 
From  the  casket  where  it  lies  — 
Of  itself  would  arise  and  write 
My  thanks  and  my  surprise. 

When  you  gave  it  me  under  the  pines, 
I  dreamed  these  gems  from  the  mines 

Of  Siberia,  Ceylon,  and  Maine 
Would  glimmer  as  thoughts  in  the  lines  ; 

That  this  iron  link  from  the  chain 
Of  Bonnivard  might  retain 

Some  verse  of  the  Poet  who  sang 
Of  the  prisoner  and  his  pain ; 

That  this  wood  from  the  frigate's  mast 
Might  write  me  a  rhyme  at  last, 
As  it  used  to  write  on  the  sky 
The  song  of  the  sea  and  the  blast. 

But  motionless  as  I  wait, 
Like  a  Bishop  lying  in  state 

Lies  the  Pen,'  with  its  mitre  of  gold, 
And  its  jewels  inviolate. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  — HELEN  OF  TYRE. 


287 


Then  must  I  speak,  and  say 
That  the  light  of  that  summer  day 

In  the  garden  under  the  pines 
Shall  not  fade  and  pass  away. 

I  shall  see  you  standing  there, 
Caressed  by  the  fragrant  air, 

With  the  shadow  on  your  face, 
And  the  sunshine  on  your  hair. 

I  shall  hear  the  sweet  low  tone 
Of  a  voice  before  unknown, 

Saying,  "This  is  from  me  to  you  — 
From  me,  and  to  you  alone." 

And  in  words  not  idle  and  vain 

I  shall  answer  and  thank  you  again 

For  the  gift,  and  the  grace  of  the  gift, 
0  beautiful  Helen  of  Maine ! 

And  forever  this  gift  will  be 
As  a  blessing  from  you  to  me, 

As  a  drop  of  the  clew  of  your  youth 
On  the  leaves  of  an  aged  tree. 


ROBERT   BURNS. 

I  SEE  amid  the  rields  of  Ayr 

A  ploughman,  who,  in  foul  and  fair, 

Sings  at  his  task 
So  clear,  we  know  not  if  it  is 
The  laverock's  song  we  hear,  or  his, 

Nor  care  to  ask. 

For  him  the  ploughing  of  those  fields 
A  more  ethereal  harvest  yields 

Than  sheaves  of  grain  ; 
Songs  flush  with  purple  bloom  the  rye, 
The  plover's  call,  the  curlew's  cry, 

Sing  in  his  brain. 

Touched  by  his  hand,  the  wayside  weed 
Becomes  a  flower ;  the  lowliest  reed 

Beside  the  stream 

Is  clothed  with  beauty  ;  gorse  and  grass 
And  heather,  where  his  footsteps  pass, 

The  brighter  seem. 

He  sings  of  love,  whose  flame  illumes 
The  darkness  of  lone  cottage  rooms ; 

He  feels  the  force, 

The  treacherous  undertow  and  stress 
Of  wayward  passions,  and  no  less 

The  keen  remorse. 

At  moments,  wrestling  with  his  fate, 
His  voice  is  harsh,  but  not  with  hate; 

The  brush-wood,  hung 
Above  the  tavern  door,  lets  fall 
Its  bitter  leaf,  its  drop  of  gall 

Upon  his  tongue. 

But  still  the  music  of  his  song 
Rises  o'er  all  elate  and  strong; 
Its  master-chords 


Are  Manhood,  Freedom,  Brotherhood, 
Its  discords  but  an  interlude 
Between  the  words. 

And  then  to  die  so  young  and  leare 
Unfinished  what  he  might  achieve! 

Yet  better  sure 

Is  this,  than  wandering  up  and  down 
An  old  man  in  a  country  town, 

Infirm  and  poor. 

For  now  he  haunts  his  native  land 
As  an  immortal  youth  :  his  hand 

Guides  every  plough  ; 
He  sits  beside  each  ingle-nook, 
His  voice  is  in  each  rushing  brook, 

Each  rustling  bough. 

His  presence  haunts  this  room  to-nighv 
A  form  of  mingled  mist  and  light 

From  that  far  coast. 
Welcome  beneath  this  roof  of  mine  ! 
Welcome!  this  vacant  chair  is  thine, 

Dear  guest  and  ghost ! 


HELEN  OF   TYRE. 

WHAT  phantom  is  this  that  appears 
Through  the  purple  mists  of  the  years, 

Itself  but  a  mist  like  these  ? 
A  woman  of  cloud  and  of  fire ; 
It  is  she ;  it  is  Helen  of  Tyre. 

The  town  in  the  midst  of  the  seas 

0  Tyre !  in  thy  crowded  streets 
The  phantom  appears  and  retreats, 

And  the  Israelites  that  sell 
Thy  lilies  and  lions  of  brass, 
Look  up  as  they  see  her  pass, 

And  murmur  "Jezebel!" 

Then  another  phantom  is  seen 
At  her  side,  in  a  gray  gabardine, 

With  beard  that' floats  to  his  waist; 
It  is  Simon  Magus,  the  Seer ; 
He  speaks,  and  she  pauses  to  hear 

The  words  he  utters  in  haste. 

He  says:  "From  this  evil  fame, 
From 'this  life  of  sorrow  and  shame, 

I  will  lift  thee  and  make  thee  nrne; 
Thou  hast  been  Queen  C'andace, 
And  Helen  of  Troy,  and  shalt  be 

The  Intelligence  Divine!" 

Oh,  sweet  as  the  breath  of  morn, 
To  the  fallen  and  forlorn 

Are  wl'ispered  words  of  praise  ; 
For  the  famished  heart  believes 
The  falsehood  that  tempts  and  deceives, 

And  the  promise  that  betrays. 

So  she  follows  from  land  to  land 
The  wizard's  beckoning  hand, 

As  a  leaf  is  blown  by  the  gust, 


288 


ELEGIAC.  — THE   SIFTING   OF  PETER. 


Till  she  vanishes  into  night. 
O  reader,  stoop  down  and  write 
With  thy  finger  in  the  dust. 

0  town  in  the  midst  of  the  seas, 
With  thy  rafts  of  cedar-trees, 

Thy  merchandise  and  thy  ships, 
Thou,  too,  art  become  as  naught, 
A  phantom,  a  shadow,  a  thought, 

A  name  upon  men's  lips. 


ELEGIAC. 

DARK  is  Jhe  morning  with  mist;  in  the   narrow 

mouth  of  the  harbor 

Motionless  lies  the  sea,  under  its  curtain  of  cloud; 
Dreamily  glimmer  the  sails  of  ships  on  the  distant 

horizon, 

Like  to  the  towers  of  a  town,  built  on  the  verge 
of  the  sea. 

Slowly  and  stately  and  still,  they  sail  forth  into 

the  ocean; 
With  them  sail  my  thoughts  over  the  limitless 

deep, 
Farther  and  farther  away,  borne  on  by  unsatisfied 

longings, 
Unto  Hesperian  isles,  unto  Ausonian  shores. 

Now  they  have  vanished  away,  have  disappeared 

in  the  ocean ; 
Sunk  are  the  towers  of  the  town  into  the  depths 

of  the  sea ! 
All  have  vanished  but  those  that,  moored  in  the 

neighboring  roadstead, 

Sailless  at  anchor  ride,  looming  so  large  in  the 
mist. 

Vanished,  too,  are  the  thoughts,  the  dim,  unsatis 
fied  longings; 
Sunk  are  the  turrets  of  cloud  into  the  ocean  of 

dreams ; 
While  in  a  haven*  of  rest  my  heart  is  riding  at 

anchor, 

Held  by  the  chains  of  love,  held  bv  the  anchors 
of  trust ! 


OLD  ST.  DAVID'S  AT  RADNOR. 

WHAT  an  image  of  peace  and  rest 

Is  this  little  church  among  its  graves ! 
AH  is  so  quiet;  the  troubled  breast, 
The  wounded  spirit,  the  heart  oppressed, 
Here  may  find  the  repose  it  craves. 

See,  how  the  ivy  climbs  and  expands 

Over  this  humble  hermitage, 
And  seems  to  caress  with  its  little  hands 
The  rough,  gray  stones,  as  a  child  that  stands 

Caressing  the  wrinkled  cheeks  of  age ! 

You  cross  the  threshold ;  and  dim  and  small 
Is  the  space    that    serves  for  the   Shepherd's 

Fold ; 

The  narrow  aisle,  the  bare,  white  wall, 
The  pews,  and  the  pulpit  quaint  and  tall, 
Whisper  and  say :  "  Alas !  we  are  old." 

Herbert's  chapel  at  Bemerton 

Hardly  more  spacious  is  than  this ; 
But  Poet  and  Pastor,  blent  in  one, 
Clothed  with  a  splendor,  as  of  the  sun, 

That  lowly  and  holy  edifice. 

It  is  not  the  wall  of  stone  without 

That  makes  the  building«Bmall  or  great, 

But  the  soul's  light  shining  round  about, 

And  the  faith  that  overcometh  doubt, 
And  the  love  that  stronger  is  than  hate. 

Were  I  a  pilgrim  in  search  of  peace, 

Were  I  a  pastor  of  Holy  Church, 
More  than  a  Bishop's  diocese 
Should  I  prize  this  place  of  rest,  and  release 

From  farther  longing  and  farther  search. 

Here  would  I  stay,  and  let  the  world 
With  its  distant  thunder  roar  and  roll; 

Storms  do  not  rend  the  sail  that  is  furled ; 

Nor  like  a  dead  leaf,  tossed  and  whirled 
In  an  eddy  of  wind,  is  the  anchored  soul. 


FOLK    SONGS. 


THE  SIFTING  OF  PETER. 

IN  St.  Luke's  Gospel  we  are  told 
How  Peter  in  the  days  of  old 

Was  sifted; 

And  now,  though  ages  intervene, 
Sin  is  the  same,  while  time  and  scene 

Are  shifted. 

Satan  desires  us,  great  and  small, 
As  wheat  to  sift  us,  and  we  all 

Are  tempted ; 

Not  one,  however  rich  or  great, 
Is  by  his  station  or  estate 

Exempted. 

No  house  so  safely  guarded  is 
But  he,  by  some  device  of  his, 

Can  enter; 

No  heart  hath  armor  so  complete 
But  he  can  pierce  with  arrows  fleet 

Its  centre. 


For  all  at  last  the  cock  will  crow, 
Who  hear  the  warning  voice,  but  go 

Unheeding, 

Till  thrice  and  more  they  have  denied 
The  Man  of  Sorrows,  crucified 

And  bleeding. 

One  look  of  that  pale  suffering  face 
Will  make  us  feel  the  deep  disgrace 

Of  weakness ; 

We  shall  be  sifted  till  the  strength 
Of  self-conceit  be  changed  at  length 

To  meekness. 

Wounds  of  the  soul,  though  healed,  will 
The  reddening  scars  remain,  and  make 

Confession ; 

Lost  innocence  returns  no  more ; 
We  are  not  whet  we  were  before 

Trangression. 


THE   TIDE   RISES,   THE   TIDE  FALLS.  —  THE   WINDMILL. 


289 


But  noble  souls,  through  dust  and  heat, 
Rise  from  disaster  and  defeat 
The  stronger, 


And  conscious  still  of  the  divine 
Within  them,  lie  on  earth  supine 
No  longer. 


THE  TIDE  RISES,  THE  TIDE  FALLS. 

THE  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 
The  twilight  darkens,  the  curlew  calls; 
Along  the  sea-sands  damp  and  brown 
The  traveller  hastens  toward  the  town, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 
Hut  the  sea-  in  the  darkness  calls  and  calls ; 
The  little  waves,  with  their  soft,  white  hands, 
Efface  the  footprints  in  the  sands, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

The  morning  breaks ;  the  steeds  in  their  stalls 
Stamp  and  neigh,  as  the  hostler  calls; 
The  day  returns,  but  nevermore 
Returns  the  traveller  to  the  shore. 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 


MAIDEN  AND  WEATHERCOCK. 


0  WEATHERCOCK  on  the  village  spire, 
With  your  golden  feathers  all  on  tire, 

Tell  me,  what  can  you  see  from  your  perch 
Above  there  over  the  tower  of  the  church? 

WEATHERCOCK. 

1  can  see  the  roofs  and  the  streets  below, 
And  the  people  moving  to  and  fro, 

And  beyond,  without  either  roof  or  street, 
The  great  salt  sea,  and  the  fisherman's  fleet. 

I  can  see  a  ship  come  sailing  in 
Beyond  the  headlands  and  harbor  of  Lynn, 
And  a  young  man  standing  on  the  deck, 
With  a  silken  kerchief  round  his  neck. 

Now  he  is  pressing  it  to  his  lips, 
And  now  he  is  kissing  his  finger-tips, 


And  now  he  is  lifting  and  waving  his  hand, 
And  blowing  the  kisses  toward  the  land. 


Ah,  that  is  the  ship  from  over  the  sea, 
That  is  bringing  my  lover  back  to  me, 
Bringing  my  lover  so  fond  and  true, 
Who  does  not  change  with  the  wind  like  you. 

WEATHERCOCK. 

If  I  change  with  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
It  is  onlv  because  they  made  me  so, 
And  peo'ple  would  think  it  wondrous  strange, 
If  I,,  a  Weathercock,  should  not  change. 

0  pretty  Maiden,  so  fine  and  fair, 

With  your  dreamy  eyes  and  your  golden  hair, 

When  vou  and  your  lover  meet  to-day 

You  will  thank  me  for  looking  some  other  way. 


THE  WINDMILL. 

BEHOLD!  a  giant  am  I! 

Aloft  here  in  my  tower, 

With  my  granite  jaws  I  devour 

The  maize,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  rye, 
And  grind  them  into  flour. 

I  look  down  over  the  farms; 

In  the  fields  of  grain  I  see 
The  harvest  that  is  to  be, 

And  I  fling  to  the  air  my  arms, 

For  I  know  it  is  all  for  me. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  flails 

Far  off,  from  the  threshing-floors 
In  barns,  with  their  open  doors, 

And  the  wind,  the  wind  in  my  sails, 
Louder  and  louder  roars. 


290 


MY   CATHEDRAL.  —  THE  POET  AND   HIS   SONGS. 


I  stand  here  in  ray  place, 

With  my  foot  on  the  rock  below, 
And  whichever  way  it  may  blow 

I  meet  it  face  to  face, 

As  a  brave  man  meets  his  foe. 

And  while  we  wrestle  and  strive 

My  master,  the  miller,  stands 
And  feeds  me  with  his  hands ; 


For  he  knows  who  makes  him  thrive, 
Who  makes  him  lord  of  lands. 

On  Sundays  I  take  my  rest ; 

Church-going  bells  begin 
Their  low,  melodious  din  ; 

I  cross  my  arms  on  my  breast, 
And  all  is  peace  within. 


SONNETS. 


MY  CATHEDRAL. 

LIKE  two  cathedral  towers  these  stately  pines 
Uplift  their  fretted  summits  tipped  with  cones; 
The  arch  beneath  them  is  not  built  with  stones, 
Not.  Art  but  Nature  traced  these  lovely  lines, 

And  carved  this  graceful  arabesque  of  vines ; 
No  organ  but  the  wind  here  sighs  and  moans, 
No  sepulchre  conceals  a  martyr's  bones, 
No  marble  bishop  on  his  tomb  reclines. 

Enter !  the  pavement,  carpeted  with  leaves, 
Gives  back  a  softened  echo  to  thy  tread ! 
Listen!  the  choir  is  singing;  all  the  birds, 

In  leafy  galleries  beneath  the  eaves, 
Are  singing!  listen,  ere  the  sound  be  fled, 
And  learn  there  may  be  worship  without  words. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  POET. 

RICHARD    HENRY  DANA. 

.IN  the  old  churchyard  of  his  native  town, 
And  in  the  ancestral  tomb  beside  the  wall, 
We  laid  him  in  the  sleep  that  comes  to  all, 
And  left  him  to  his  rest  and  his  renown. 


The  snow  was  falling,  as  if  Heaven  dropped  down 
White  flowers  of  Paradise  to  strew  his  pall ;  — 
The  dead  around  him  seemed  to  wake,  and  call 
His  mime,  as  worthy  of  so  white  a  crown. 

And  now  the  moon  is  shining  on  the  scene, 
And  the  broad  sheet  of  snow  is  written  o'er 
With  shadows  cruciform  of  leafless  trees, 

As  once  the  winding-sheet  of  Saladin 
With  chapters  of  the  Koran;  but,  ah!  more 
Mysterious  and  triumphant  signs  are  these. 


NIGHT. 

INTO  the  darkness  and  the  hush  of  night 
Slowlj'  the  landscape  sinks,  and  fades  away. 
And  with  it  fade  the  phantoms  of  the  day, 
The  ghosts  of  men  and  things,  that  haunt  the 
light. 

The  crowd,  the  clamor,  the  pursuit,  the  flight, 
The  unprofitable  splendor  and  display, 
The  agitations,  and  the  cares  that  prey 
Upon  our  hearts,  all  vanish  out  of  sight. 

The  better  life  begins ;  the  world  no  more 
Molests  us ;  all  its  records  we  erase 
From  the  dull  commonplace  book  of  our  lives, 

That  like  a  palimpsest  is  written  o'er 
With  trivial  incidents  of  time  and  place, 
And  lo !  the  ideal,  hidden  beneath,  revives. 


L'EHTVOI. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS   SONGS. 

As  the  birds  come  in  the  Spring, 

We  know  not  from  where; 
As  the  stars  come  at  evening 

From  depths  of  the  air; 

As  the  rain  comes  from  the  cloud, 
And  the  brook  from  the  ground ; 

As  suddenly,  low  or  loud, 
Out  of  silence  a  sound ; 

As  the  grape  comes  to  the  vine, 

The  fruit  to  the  tree; 
As  the  wind  comes  to  the  pine, 

And  the  tide  to  the  sea ; 

As  come  the  white  sails  of  ships 
O'er  the  ocean's  verge ; 


As  comes  the  smile  to  the  lips, 
The  foam  to  the  surge ; 

So  come  to  the  Poet  his  songs, 

All  hitherward  blown 
From  the  mistv  realm,  that  belongs 

To  the  vast  Unknown. 

His,  and  not  his,  are  the  lays 

He  sings ;  and  their  fame 
Is  his,  and  not  his ;  and  the  praise 

And  the  pride  of  a  name. 

For  voices  pursue  him  by  day, 

And  haunt  him  by  night, 
And  he  listens,  and  needs  must  obey, 

When  the  Angel  says :  "  Write ! " 


BECALMED.  —  THE  POET'S  CALENDAR. 


291 


IN  THE  HAKBOR 

ULTIMA   THULE.  — PART  II. 


BECALMED. 


BECALMED  upon  the  sea  of  Thought, 
Still  unattainecl  the  land  it  sought, 
My  mind,  with  loosely-hanging  sails, 
Lies  waiting  the  auspicious  gales. 

On  either  side,  behind,  before, 
The  ocean  stretches  like  a  floor,  — 
A  level  floor  of  amethyst, 
Crowned  by  a  golden'dome  of  mist. 

Blow,  breath  of  inspiration,  blow! 
Shake  and  uplift  this  golden  glow! 
And  fill  the  canvas  of  the  mind 
With  wafts  of  thy  celestial  wind. 

Blow,  breath  of  song !  until  I  feel 
The  straining  sail,  the  lifting  ksel, 
The  life  of  the  awakening  sea, 
Its  motion  and  its  mvsterv ! 


HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS. 

As  Seleucus  narrates,  Hermes  describes  the  principles 
that  rank  as  wholes  in  two  myriads  of  books  ;  or,  as  we 
are  informed  by  Manetho,  he  perfectly  unfolded  these 
principles  in  three  myriads  -ix  thousand  five  hundred 
and  twenty-five  volumes.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Our  ancestors  dedicated  the  inventions  of  their 
wisdom  to  this  deity,  inscribing  till  their  own  writings 
With  the  name  of  Hermes.  —  IAMBLICUS. 

STILL  through  Egypt's  desert  places 

Flows  the  lordly  Nile, 
From  its  banks  the  great  stone  faces 

Gaze  with  patient  smile. 
Still  the  pyramids  imperious 

Pierce  the  cloudless  skies, 
And  the  Sphinx  stares  with  mysterious, 

Solemn,  stony  eyes. 

But  where  are  the  old  Egyptian 

Demi-gods  and  kings  '} 
Nothing  left  but  an  inscription 

Graven  on  stones  and  rings. 
Where  are  Helios  and  Hephcestus, 

Gods  of  eldest  eld  '! 
Where  is  Hermes  Trismegistus, 

Who  their  secrets  held  ? 

Where  are  now  the  many  hundred 

Thousand  books  he  wrote  ? 
By  the  Thaumaturgists  plundered, 

Lost  in  lands  remote ; 
In  oblivion  sunk  forever, 

As  when  o'er  the  land 
Blows  a  storm-wind,  in  the  river 

Sinks  the  scattered  sand. 

Something  unsubstantial,  ghostly, 

Seems  this  Theurgist, 
In  deep  meditation  mostly 

Wrapped,  as  in  a  mist. 
Vague,  phantasmal,  and  unreal 

To  our  thought  he  seems, 
Walkin-g  in  a  world  ideal, 

In  a  land  of  dreams. 

Was  he  one,  or  many,  merging 
Name  and  fame  in  nne, 


Fro 


1  the  sweet  waters  leading 
unnumbered  lakes. 


By  the  Nile  I  see  him  wandering, 

Pausing  now  and  then, 
On  the  mystic  union  pondering 

BetA*een  god.s  and  men  ; 
Half  believing,  wholly  feeling, 

With  supreme  delight, 
How  the  gods,  themselves  concealing, 

Lift  men  to  their  height. 

Or  in  Thebes,  the  hundred-gated, 

In  the  thoroughfare 
Breathing,  as  if  consecrated, 

A  diviner  air  ; 
And  amid  discordant  noises, 

In  the  jostling  throng, 
Hearing  far,  celestial  voices 

Of  Olympian  song. 

Who  shall  call  his  dreams  fallacious  ? 

Who  has  searched  or  sought 
All  the  unexplored  and  spacious 

Universe  of  thought  V 
Who,  in  his  own  skill  confiding, 

Shall  with  rule  and  line 
Mark  the  border-land  dividing 

Human  and  divine  ? 

Trismegistus!  three  times  greatest! 

How  thy  name  sublime 
Has  descended  to  this  latest 

Progeny  of  Time ! 
Happy  they  whose  written  pages 

Perish  with  their  lives, 
If  among  the  crumbling  ages 

Still  their  name  survives! 

Thine,  0  priest  of  Egypt,  lately 

Found  I  in  the  vast, 
Weed-encumbered,  sombre,  stately, 

Grave-yard  of  the  Past ; 
And  a  presence  moved  before  me 

On  that  gloomy  shore. 
As  a  waft  of  wind,  that  o'er  me 

Breathed,  and  was  no  more. 


THE  POET'S  CALENDAR. 


JANUS  am  I ;  oldest  of  potentates ; 

Forward  I  look,  and  backward,  and  below 
I  count,  as  god  of  avenues  and  gates, 

The  years  that  through  my  portals  come  and  go 


I  block  the  roads,  and  drift  the  fields  with  snow, 
I  chase  the  wild-fowl  from  the  frozen  fen ; 

My  frosts  congeal  the  rivers  in  their  flow, 
My  fires  light  up  the  hearths  and  hearts  of  men. 


292 


THE   POET'S   CALENDAR. 


FEBRUARY. 

I  am  lustration ;  and  the  sea  is  mine  ! 

I  wash  the  sands  and  headlands  with  my  tide ; 
My  brow  is  crowned  with  branches  of  the  pine; 

Before  my  chariot-wheels  the  fishes  glide. 
By  me  all  things  unclean  are  purified, 

By  me  the  souls  of  men  washed  white  again  ; 
E'en  the  unlovely  tombs  of  those  who  died 

Without  a  dirge,  I  cleanse  from  every  stain. 


Mine  are  the  longest  days,  the  loveliest  nights ; 

The  mower's  scythe  makes  music  to  my  ear; 
I  am  the  mother  of  all  dear  delights; 

I  am  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  year. 


My  emblem  is  the  Lion,  and  I  breathe 

The  breath  of  Libyan  deserts  o'er  the  land; 


I  Martius  am !    Once  first,  and  now  the  third ! 

To  lead  the  Year  was  my  appointed  place  ; 
A  mortal  dispossessed  me  by  a  word, 

And  set  there  Janus  with'the  double  face. 
Hence  I  make  war  on  all  the  human  race  ; 

I  shake  the  cities  with  my  hurricanes ; 
I  flood  the  rivers  and  their  banks  efface, 

And  drown  the  farms  and  hamlets  with  my  rains. 

APRIL. 

I  open  wide  the  portals  of  the  Spring 

To  welcome  the  procession  of  the  flowers, 
With  their  gay  banners,  and  the  birds  that  sing 

Their  song  of  songs  from  their  aerial  towers. 
I  soften  with  my  sunshine  and  my  showers 

The  heart  of  earth  ;  with  thoughts  of  love  I  glide 
Into  the  hearts  of  men ;  and  with  the  Hours 

Upon  the  Bull  with  wreathed  horns  I  ride. 


Hark !     The  sea-faring  wild-fowl  loud  proclaim 

My  coming,  and  the  swarming  of  the  bees. 
These  are  my  heralds,  and  behold !  my  name 

Is  written  in  blossoms  on  the  hawthorn-trees. 
I  tell  the  mariner  when  to  sail  the  seas; 

I  waft  o'er  all  the  land  from  far  away 
The  breath  and  bloom  of  the  Hesperides, 

My  birthplace.    I  am  Maia.    1  am  May. 


Mine  is  the  Month  of  Roses;  yes,  and  mine 
The  Month  of  Marriages !     All  pleasant  sights 

And  scents,  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoming  vine, 
The  foliage  of  the  valleys  and  the  heights. 


My  sickle  as  a  sabre  I  unsheathe, 

And  bent  before  me  the  pale  harvests  stand. 
The  lakes  and  rivers  shrink  at  my  command, 

And  there  is  thirst  and  fever  in  the  air ; 
The  sky  is  changed  to  brass,  the  earth  to  sand; 

I  am' the  Emperor  whose  name  I  bear. 


The  Emperor  Octavian,  called  the  August, 

I  being  his  favorite,  bestowed  his  name 
Upon  me,  and  I  hold  it  still  in  trust, 

In  memory  of  him  and  of  his  fame. 
I  am  the  Virgin,  and  my  vestal  flame 

Burns  less  intensely  than  the  Lion's  rage; 
Sheaves  are  mv  only  garlands,  and  I  claim 

The  golden  Harvests  as  my  heritage. 

SEPTEMBER. 

I  bear  the  Scales,  where  hang  in  equipoise 

The  night  and  day;  and  when  unto  my  lips 
I  put  my  trumpet,  with  its  stress  and  noise 

Fly  the  white  clouds  like  tattered  sails  of  ships; 
The  tree-tops  lash  the  air  with  sounding  whips; 

Southward   the   clamorous   sea-fowl  wing  their 

flight; 
The  hedges  are  all  red  with  haws  and  hips, 

The  Hunter's  Moon  reigns  empress  of  the  night 


Mv  ornaments  are  fruits ;  my  garments  leaves, 
\Voven  like  cloth  of  gold,  and  crimson  dyed; 

I  do  not  boast  the  harvesting  of  sheaves, 
O'er  orchards  and  o'er  vineyards  I  preside. 


MAD  RIVER. 


293 


Though  on  the  frigid  Scorpion  I  ride, 
The  dreamy  air  is  full,  and  overflows 

With  tender  memories  of  the  summer-tide, 
And  mingled  voices  of  the  doves  and  crows. 

NOVEMBER. 

The  Centaur,  Sagittarius,  am  I, 

Born  of  Ixion's  and  the  cloud's  embrace ; 
With  sounding  hoofs  across  the  earth  I  fly, 

A  steed  Thessalian  with  a  human  face. 
Sharp  winds  the  arrows  are  with  which  I  chase 

The  leaves,  half  dead  already  with  affright  ; 
I  shroud  myself  in  gloom  ;  and  to  the  race 

Of  mortals  bring  nor  comfort  nor  delight. 

DECEMBER. 

Riding  upon  the  Goat,  with  snow-white  hair, 
I  come,  the  last  of  all.     This  crown  of  mine 

Is  of  the  holly;  in  my  hand  I  bear 

The  thyrsus,  tipped  with  fragrant  cones  of  pine. 

I  celebrate  the  birth  of  the  Divine, 
And  the  return  of  the  Saturnian  reign;  — 


Of  thine,  to  put  the  words  I  speak 
Into  a  plaintive  ditty  V 


TRAVELLER. 


Yes ;  I  would  learn  of  thee  thy  song, 
With  all  its  flowing  numbers, 
And  in  a  voice  as  fresh  and  strong 
As  thine  is,  sing  it  all  day  long, 

And  hear  it  in  my  slumbers. 

THE   RIVER. 

A  brooklet  nameless  and  unknown 
Was  I  at  first,  resembling 

A  little  child,  that  all  alone 

Conies  venturing  down  the  stairs  of  stone, 
Irresolute  and  trembling. 

Later,  by  wayward  fancies  led, 

For  the  wide  world  I  panted ; 

Out  of  the  forest  dark  and  dread 

Across  the  open  fields  I  fled, 

Like  one  pursued  and  haunted. 


My  songs  are  carols  sung  at  every  shrine, 
Proclaiming  "Peace    on    earth,  good  will    t 
men." 


MAD  RIVER, 

IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 
TRAVELLER. 

WHY  dost  thou  wildly  rush  and  roar, 

Mad  River,  O  Alad  River? 
Wilt  thou  not  pause  and  cease  to  pour 
Thy  hurrying,  headlong  waters  o'er 

This  rocky  shelf  forever  ? 

What  secret  trouble  stirs  thy  breast  ? 

Why  all  this  fret  and  flurry  ? 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  what  is  best 
In  this  too  restless  world  is  rest 

From  over-work  and  worry  ? 

THE   RIVER. 

What  wouldst  thou  in  these  mountains  seek, 

O  stranger  from  the  city  ? 
Is  it  perhaps  some  foolish  freak 


I  tossed  my  arms,  I  sang  aloud, 

My  Voice  exultant  blending 
With  thunder  from  the  passing  cloud, 
The  wind,  the  forest  bent  and  bowed, 
The  rush  of  rain  descending. 

I  heard  the  distant  ocean  call, 

Imploring  and  entreating; 
Drawn  onward,  o'er  this  rocky  wall 
I  plunged,  and  the  loud  waterfall 

Made  answer  to  the  greeting. 

And  now,  beset  with  many  ills, 
A  toilsome  life  I  follow; 
Compelled  to  carry  from  the  hills 
These  logs  to  the  impatient  mills 
Below  there  in  the  hollow. 

Yet  something  ever  cheers  and  charms 

The  rudeness  of  my  labors; 
Daily  I  water  with  these  arms 
The  'cattle  of  a  hundred  farms, 

And  have  the  birds  for  neighbors. 

Men  call  me  Mad,  and  well  they  may, 

When,  full  of  rage  and  trouble, 

I  burst  my  banks  of  sand  and  clay, 

And  sweep  their  wooden  bridge  away, 

Like  withered  reeds  or  stubbJe. 


294 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN.  —  THE   CHILDREN'S   CRUSADE. 


Now  go  and  write  thy  little  rhyme, 
As  of  thine  own  creating. 

Thou  seest  the  day  is  past  its  prime ; 

I  can  no  longer  waste  my  time ; 

The  mills  are  tired  of  waiting. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN. 

IK  MEMORY    OF    J.    T.    F. 

UNTIL,  we  meet  again !     That  is  the  meaning 
Of  the  familiar  words,  that  men  repeat 

At  parting  in  the  street. 

Ah  yes,  till  then !  but  when  death  intervening 
Rends  us  asunder,  with  what  ceaseless  pain 

We  wait  for  the  Again. 

The  friends  who  leave  us  do  not  feel  the  sorrow 
Of  parting,  as  we  feel  it,  who  must  stay 

Lamenting  day  by  day, 

And  knowing,  when  we  wake  upon  the  morrow, 
We  shall  not  find  in  its  accustomed  place 

The  one  beloved  face. 

It  were  a  double  grief,  if  the  departed, 
Being  released  from  earth,  should  still  retain 

A  sense  of  earthly  pain ; 
It  were  a  double  grief,  if  the  true-hearted, 
Who  loved  us  here,  should  on  the  farther  shore 

Remember  us  no  more. 

Believing,  in  the  midst  of  our  afflictions, 
That  death  is  a  beginning,  not  an  end, 

We  cry  to  them,  and  send 

Farewells,  that  better  might  be  called  predictions, 
Being  fore-shadowings  of  the  future,  thrown 

Into  the  vast  Unknown. 

Faith  overleaps  the  confines  of  our  reason, 
And  if  by  faith,  as  in  old  times  was  said, 

Women  received  their  dead 
Raised  up  to  life,  then  only  for  a  season 
Our  partings  are,  nor  shall  we  wait  in  vain 

Until  we  meet  again ! 


THE  CHILDREN'S   CRUSADE. 

[A   FRAGMENT.] 


WHAT  is  this  I  read  in  history, 
Full  of  marvel,  full  of  mystery, 
Difficult  to  understand  ? 
Is  it  fiction,  is  it  truth  ? 
Children  in  the  flower  of  youth, 
Heart  in  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Ignorant  of  what  helps  or  harms, 
Without  armor,  without  arms, 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land  ! 

Who  shall  answer  or  divine  ? 
Never  since  the  world  was  made 
Such  a  wonderful  crusade 
Started  forth  for  Palestine. 
Never  while  the  world  shall  last 
Will  it  reproduce  the  past ; 
Never  will  it  see  again 
Such  an  army,  such  a  band, 
Over  mountain,  over  main, 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land. 

Like  a  shower  of  blossoms  blown 
From  the  parent  trees  were  they; 
Like  a  flock  of  birds  that  fly 
Through  the  unfrequented  sky, 


Holding  nothing  as  their  own, 
Passed  they  into  lands  unknown, 
Passed  to  suffer  End  to  die. 

0  the  simple,  child-like  trust ! 
O  the  faith  that  could  believe 
What  the  harnessed,  iron-mailed 
Knights  of  Christendom  had  failed, 
~By  their  prowess,  to  achieve, 
They,  the  children,  could  and  must ! 

Little  thought  the  Hermit,  preaching 

Holy  Wars  to  knight  and  baron, 

That  the  words  dropped  in  his  teaching, 

His  entreaty,  his  beseeching, 

Would  by  children's  hands  be  gleaned, 

And  the  staff  on  which  he  leaned 

Blossom  like  the  rod  of  Aaron. 

\ 

As  a  summer  wind  upheaves 

The  innumerable  leaves 

In  the  bosom  of  a  wood,  — 

Not  as  separate  leaves,  but  massed 

All  together  by  the  blast,  — 

So  for  evil  or  for  good 

His  resistless  breath  upheaved 

All  at  once  the  many-leaved, 

Many-thoughted  multitude. 

In  the  tumult  of  the  air 
Rock  the  boughs  with  all  the  nests 
Cradled  on  their  tossing  crests ; 
By  the  fervor  of  his  prayer 
Troubled  hearts  were  everywhere 
Rocked  and  tossed  in  human  breasts. 

For  a  century,  at  least. 
His  prophetic  voice  had  ceased ; 
But  the  air  was  heated  still 
By  his  lurid  words  and  will, 
As  from  fires  in  far-off  woods, 
In  the  autumn  of  the  year, 
An  unwonted  fever  broods 
In  the  sultry  atmosphere. 


In  Cologne  the  bells  were  ringing, 
In  Cologne  the  nuns  were  singing 
Hymns  and  canticles  divine; 
Loud  the  monks  sang  in  their  stalls, 
And  the  thronging  streets  were  loud 
With  the  voices  of  the  crowd ;  — 
Underneath  the  citv  walls 
Silent  flowed  the  liver  Rhine. 

From  the  gates,  that  summer  dajr, 
Clad  in  robes  of  hodden  gray, 
With  the  red  cross  on  the  breast, 
Azure-eyed  and  golden-haired, 
Forth  the  young  crusaders  fared; 
While  above  the  band  devoted 
Consecrated  banners  floated, 
Fluttered  many  a  flag  and  streamer, 
And  the  cross  o'er  all  the  rest! 
Singing  lowly,  meekly,  slowly, 
"  Give  us,  give  us  back  the  holy 
Sepulchre  of  the  Redeemer!  " 
On  the  vast  procession  pressed, 
Youths  and  maidens.  .  .  . 


Ah !  what  master  hand  shall  paint 
How  they  journeyed  on  their  way, 
How  the  days  grew  long  and  dreary, 
How  their  little  feet  grew  weary, 
How  their  little  hearts  grew  faint ! 

Ever  swifter  day  by  day 

Flowed  the  homeward  river ;  ever 


THE   CITY   AND   THE    SEA.  —  CHIMES. 


295 


More  and  more  its  whitening  current 
Broke  and  scattered  into  spray. 
Till  the  calmly-flowing  river  * 
Changed  into  a  mountain  torrent, 
Rushing  from  its  glacier  green 
Down  through  chasm  and  black  ravine. 
Like  a  phoenix  in  its  nest, 
Burned  the  red  sun  in  the  West, 
Sinking  in  an  ashen  cloud; 
In  the  East,  above  the  crest 
Of  the  sea-like  mountain  chain, 
Like  a  phoenix  from  its  shroud, 
Came  the  red  sun  back  again. 

Now  around  them,  white  with  snow, 
Closed  the  mountain  peaks.     Below, 
Headlong  from  the  precipice 
Down  into  the  dark  abyss, 
Plunged  the  cataract,  white  with  foam; 
And  it  said,  or  seemed  to  say : 
"Oh  return,  while  yet  you  may, 
Foolish  children,  to  your  home, 
There  the  Holy  City  is  !  " 

But  the  dauntless  leader  said  : 
"  Faint  not,  though  your  bleeding  feet 
O'er  these  slippery  paths  of  sleet 
Move  but  painfully  and  slowly; 
Other  feet  than  yours  have  bled ; 
Other  tears  than  yours  been  shed. 
Courage !  lose  not  heart  or  hope ; 
On  the  mountains'  southern  slope 
Lies  Jerusalem  the  Holy!  " 
As  a  white  rose  in  its  pride, 
By  the  wind  in  summer-tide 
Tossed  and  loosened  from  the  branch, 
Showers  its  petals  o'er  the  ground, 
From  the  distant  mountain's  side, 
Scattering  all  its  snows  around, 
With  mysterious,  muffled  sound, 
Loosened,  fell  the  avalanche. 
Voices,  echoes  far  and  near. 
Roar  of  winds  and  waters  blending, 
Mists  uprising,  clouds  impending, 
Filled  them  with  a  sense  of  fear, 
Formless,  nameless,  never  ending. 


THE  CITY  AND   THE   SEA. 

FHE  panting  City  cried  to  the  Sea, 

"  I  am  faint  with  heat,  —  O  breathe  on  me !  " 

And  the  Sea  said,  "  Lo,  I  breathe  !  but  my  breath 
To  some  will  be  life,  to  others  death!  " 

As  to  Prometheus,  bringing  ease 
In  pain,  come  the  Oceanides, 

So  to  the  City,  hot  with  the  flame 

Of  the  pitiless  sun,  the  east  wind  came. 

It  came  from  the  heaving  breast  of  the  deep, 
Silent  as  dreams  are,  and  sudden  as  sleep. 

Life-giving,  death-giving,  which  will  it  be; 
O  breath  of  the  merciful,  merciless  Sea? 


SUNDOWN. 

THE  summer  sun  is  sinking  low; 
Only  the  tree-tops  redden  and  glow: 
Only  the  weathercock  on  the  spire 
Of  the  neighboring  church  is  a  flame  of  fire ; 
All  is  in  shadow  below. 


O  beautiful,  awful  summer  day, 
What  hast  them  given,  what  taken  away? 
Life  and  death,  and  love  and  hate, 
Homes  made  happy  or  desolate, 
Hearts  made  sad  or  gay  ! 

On  the  road  of  life  one  mile-stone  more ! 
In  the  book  of  life  one  leaf  turned  o'er ! 
Like  a  red  seal  is  the  setting  sun 
On  the  good  and  the  evil  men  have  done,  - 

taught  can  to-<lay  restore  ! 
Jvly  24,  1879. 


PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 

"  E   VENNI   DAL   MARTIKIO   A   QUESTA   PACE." 

THESE  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying  here, 
In  the  true  faith  was  living  in  that  sphere 
Where  the  celestial  cross  of  sacrilice 

Spread  its  protecting  arms  athwart  the  skies;   . 
And  set  thereon,  like  jewels  crystal  clear, 
The  souls  magnanimous,  that  knew  not  fear, 

Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

Ah  me  !  how  dark  the  discipline  of  pain, 

Were  not  the  suffering  followed  by  the  sense 
Of  infinite  rc-st  and  infinite  release  ! 

This  is  our  consolation;  and  again 
A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  suspense, 

"  I  came  from  martyrdom  unto  this  peace !  " 


DECORATION   DAY. 

SLEEP,  comrades,  sleep  and  rest 
On  this  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms, 

Where  foes  no  more  molest, 
Nor  sentry's  shot  alarms  ! 

Ye  have  slept  on  the  ground  before, 

And  started  to  your  feet 
At  the  cannon's  sudden  roar, 

Or  the  drum's  redoubling  beat. 

But  in  this  camp  of  Death 

No  sound  your  slumber  breaks; 

Here  is  no  fevered  breath, 

No  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches. 

All  is  repose  and  peace, 

Untrampled  lies  the  sod ; 
The  shouts  of  battle  cease, 

It  is  the  Truce  of  God  ! 

Rest,  comrades,  rest  and  sleep! 

The  thoughts  of  men  shall  be 
As  sentinels  to  keep 

Your  rest  from  danger  free. 

Your  silent  tents  of  green 

We  deck  with  fragrant  flowers; 
Yours  has  the  suffering  been, 
The  memory  shall  be  ours. 
February  3,  1882. 


CHIMES. 

SWEET  chimes  !  that  in  the  loneliness  of  night 
Salute  the  passing  hour,  and  in  the  dark 
And  silent  chambers  of  the  household  mark 
The  movements  of  the  myriad  orbs  of  light ! 

Through  my  closed  eyelids,  by  the  inner  sight, 
I  see  the  constellations  in  the  arc 


296 


FOUR  BY  THE  CLOCK.  —  TO  THE  AVON. 


Of  their  great  circles  moving  on,  and  hark  ! 

I  almost  hear  them  singing  in  their  flight. 
Better  than  sleep  it  is  to  lie  awake 

O'er-canopied  by  the  vast  starry  dome 

Of  the  immeasurable  sky ;  to  feel 
The  slumbering  world  sink  under  us,  and  make 

Hardly  an  eddy,  —  a  mere  rush  of  foam 

On  the  great  sea  beneath  a  sinking  keel. 
August  28, 1879. 


FOUR  BY  THE  CLOCK. 

FOUR  by  the  clock  !  and  yet  not  day ; 
But  the  great  world  rolls  and  wheels  away, 
With  its  cities  on  land,  and  its  ships  at  sea, 
Into  the  dawn  that  is  to  be  ! 

Only  the  lamp  in  the  anchored  bark 
Sends  its  glimmer  across  the  dark, 
And  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sea 
Is  the  only  sound  that  comes  to  me. 

NAHANT,  September  8, 1880, 
Four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 


THE  FOUR  LAKES  OF  MADISON. 

FOUR  limpid  lakes,  —  four  Naiades 
Or  sylvan  deities  are  these, 


Now  hidden  in  cloud,  and  now  revealed, 
As  if  this  phantom,  full  of  pain, 

Were  by  the  crumbling  walls  concealed, 
And  at  the  windows  seen  again. 

Until  at  last,  serene  and  proud 

In  all  the  splendor  of  her  light, 
She  walks  the  terraces  of  cloud, 

Supreme  as  Empress  of  the  Night. 

I  look,  but  recognize  no  more 

Objects  familiar  to  my  view; 
The  very  pathway  to  my  door 

Is  an  enchanted  avenue. 

All  things  are  changed.     One  mass  of  shade, 
The  elm-trees  drop  their  curtains  down ; 

By  palace,  park,  and  colonnade 
I  walk  as  in  a  foreign  town. 

The  very  ground  beneath  my  feet 
Is  clothed  with  a  diviner  air ;  • 

White  marble  paves  the  silent  street 
And  glimmers  in  the  empty  square. 

Illusion !    Underneath  there  lies 

The  common  life  of  every  day ; 
Only  the  spirit  glorifies 

With  its  own  tints  the  sober  gray. 

In  vain  we  look,  in  vain  uplift 
Our  eyes  to  heaven,  if  we  are  blind; 


In  flowing  robes  of  azure  dressed  ; 
Four  lovely  handmaids,  that  uphold 
Their  shining  mirrors,  rimmed  with  gold, 

To  the  fair  city  in  the  West. 

I    By  day  the  coursers  of  the  sun 
Drink  of  these  waters  as  they  run 

Their  swift  diurnal  round  on  high; 
By  night  the  constellations  glow 
Far  down  the  hollow  deeps  below, 

And  glimmer  in  another  sky. 

Fair  lakes,  serene  and  full  of  light. 
Fair  town,  arrayed  in  robes  of  white, 

How  visionary  ye  appear! 
All  like  a  floating  landscape  seems 
In  cloud-land  or  the  land  of  dreams, 

Bathed  in  a  golden  atmosphere  ! 


MOONLIGHT. 

As  a  pale  phantom  with  a  lamp 
Ascends  some  ruin's  haunted  stair, 

So  glides  the  moon  along  the  damp 
Mysterious  chambers  of  the  air. 


We  see  but  what  we  have  the  gift 

Of  seeing ;  what  we  bring  we  find. 
December  20, 1878. 


TO  THE  AVON. 

FLOW  on,  sweet  river!  like  his  verse 
Who  lies  beneath  this  sculptured  hearse; 
Nor  wait  beside  the  churchyard  wall 
For  him  who  cannot  hear  thy  call. 

Thy  playmate  once ;  I  see  him  now 
A  boy  with  sunshine  on  his  brow, 
And  hear  in  Stratford's  quiet  street 
The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 

I  see  him  by  thy  shallow  edge 
Wading  knee-deep  amid  the  sedge; 
And  lost  in  thought,  as  if  thy  stream 
Were  the  swift  river  of  a  dream. 

He  wonders  whitherward  it  flows ; 
And  fain  would  follow  where  it  goes, 
To  the  wide  world,  that  shall  erelong 
Be  filled  with  his  melodious  song. 


ELEGIAC  VERSE.  — THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  B LAS. 


297 


Flow  on,  fair  stream !     That  dream  is  o'er; 
He  stands  upon  another  shore; 
A  vaster  river  near  him  flows, 
And  still  he  follows  where  it  goes. 


ELEGIAC  VERSE. 


PERADVENTURE  of  old,  some  bard  in  Ionian  Isl 
ands, 
Walking  alone  by  the  sea,  hearing  the  wash  of 

the  waves, 
Learned  the  secret  from  them  of  the  beautiful  verse 

elegiac, 

Breathing  into  his  song  motion  and  sound  of  the 
sea. 

For  as  the  wave  of  the  sea,  upheaving  in  long  un 
dulations, 
Plunges   loud  on  the  sands,  pauses,  and  turns, 

and  retreats, 
So  the  Hexameter,  rising  and  singing,  with  cadence 

sonorous, 

Falls ;  and  in  refluent  rhythm  back  the  Penta 
meter  flows.1 


Not  in  his  youth  alone,  but  in  age,  may  the  heart 

of  the  poet 

Bloom  into  song,  as  the  gorse  blossoms  in  autumn 
and  spring. 


Not  in    tenderness   wanting,    yet  rough  are    the 

rhj'mes  of  our  poet ; 

Though  it  be  Jacob's  voice,  Esau's,  alas !  are  the 
hands. 


Let  us  be  grateful  to  writers  for  what  is  left  in  the 

inkstand ; 

When  to  leave  off  is  an  art  only  attained  by  the 
few. 


How  can  the  Three  be  One?  you  ask  me;  I  an 
swer  by  asking, 

Hail  and  snow  and  rain,  are  they  not  three  and 
yet  one? 


By  the  mirage  uplifted  the  land  floats  vague  in  the 

ether, 

Ships  and  the  shadows  of  ships  hang  in  the  mo 
tionless  air; 

So  by  the  art  of  the  poet  our  common  life  is  up 
lifted, 

So,  transfigured,  the  world  floats  in  a  luminous 
haze. 


Like  a  French  poem  is  Life;  being  only  perfect  in 

structure 

When  with  the  masculine  rhymes  mingled  the 
feminine  are. 

1  Compare  Schiller. 

Im  Hexameter  steigt  des  Springquells  flflssige  Saule  ; 

Im  Pentameter  drauf  fallt  sie  melodisch  herab. 
See  also  Coleridge's  translation. 


Down  from  the   mountain  descends  the  brooklet, 

rejoicing  in  freedom ; 

Little  it  dreams  of  the  mill  hid  in  the  vallev  be 
low; 

Glad  with  the  joy  of  existence,  the  child  goes  sing 
ing  and  laughing, 

Little  dreaming  what  toils  lie  in  the  future  con 
cealed. 


As  the  ink  from  our  pen.  so  flow  our  thoughts  and 

our  feelings 

When  we  begin  to  write,  however  sluggish  be 
fore. 


Like   the   Kingdom  of  Heaven,   the  Fountain   of 

Youth  is  within  us ; 

If  we  seek  it  elsewhere,  old  shall  we  grow  hi  the 
search. 


If  you  would  hit  the  mark,  you  must  aim  a  little 

above  it ; 

Every  arrow  that    flies    feels    the   attraction  of 
earth. 


Wisely   the   Hebrews  admit  no  Present  tense  in 

their  language ; 

While  we  are  speaking  the  word,  it  is  already 
the  Past. 


In  the  twilight  of  age  all  things  seem  strange  and 

phantasmal, 

As  between  daylight  and  dark  ghostlike  the  land 
scape  appears. 


Great  is  the  art  of  beginning,  but  greater  the  art  is 

of  ending; 
Many  a  poem  is  marred  by  a  superfluous  verse. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

AWAKE!  arise!  the  hour  is  late ! 

Angels  are  knocking  at  thy  door ! 
They  are  in  haste  and  cannot  wait, 

And  once  departed  come  no  more. 

Awake !  arise !  the  athlete's  arm 
Loses  its  strength  by  too  much  rest; 

The  fallow  land,  the  untilled  farm 
Produces  only  weeds  at  best. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS.2 

WHAT  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias 
To  the  ships  that  southward  pass  _ 

From  the  harbor  of  Mazatlan? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore, 

Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 

But  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 
Are  often  one  and  the  same, — 
i  The  last  poem  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 


298 


PRELUDE.  — THE  WINE  OF  JURANQON. 


The  bells  of  San  Bias  to  me 
Have  a  strange,  wild  melody, 

And  are  something  more  than  a  name. 

For  bells  are  the  voice  of  the  church ; 
They  have  tones  that  touch  and  search 

The  hearts  of  young  and  old ; 
One  sound  to  all,  yet  each 
Lends  a  meaning  to  their  speech, 

And  the  meaning  is  manifold. 

They  are  the  voice  of  the  Past, 
Of  an  age  that  is  fading  fast, 

Of  a  power  austere  and  grand ; 
When  the  flag  of  Spain  unfurled 
Its  folds  o'er  this  western  world, 

And  the  Priest  was  lord  of  the  land. 

The  chapel  that  once  looked  down 
On  the  little  seaport  town 

Has  crumbled  into  the  dust; 
And  on  oaken  beams  below 
The  bells  swing  to  and  fro, 

And  are  green  with  mould  and  rust. 

"Is,  then,  the  old  faith  dead," 
They  say,  "and  in  its  stead 

Is  some  new  faith  proclaimed, 
That  we  are  forced  to  remain 
Naked  to  sun  and  rain, 

Unsheltered  and  ashamed? 

"  Once  in  our  tower  aloof 
We  rang  over  wall  and  roof 


Our  warnings  and  our  complaints ; 
And  round  about  us  there 
The  white  doves  filled  the  air, 

Like  the  white  souls  of  the  saints. 

"The  saints!     Ah,  have  they  grown 
Forgetful  of  their  own? 

Are  they  asleep,  or  dead, 
That  open  to  the  sky 
Their  ruined  Missions  lie, 

No  longer  tenanted? 

"  Oh,  bring  us  back  once  more 
The  vanished  days  of  yore, 

When  the  world  with  faith  was  filled; 
Bring  back  the  fervid  zeal, 
The  hearts  of  fire  and  steel, 

The  hands  that  believe  and  build. 

"Then  from  our  tower  again 
We  will  send  over  land  and  main 

Our  voices  of  command, 
Like  exiled  kings  who  return 
To  their  thrones,  and  the  people  learn 

That  the  Priest  is  lord  of  the  land ! " 

O  Bells  of  San  Bias,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  Past  again ! 

The  Past  is  deaf  to  your  prayer: 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light; 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere. 

March  15, 1882. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


PRELUDE. 


As  treasures  that  men  seek, 
Deep-buried  in  sea-sands, 

Vanish  if  they  but  speak, 
And  elude  their  eager  hands, 

So  ye  escape  and  slip, 
O  songs,  and  fade  away,  ' 

When  the  word  is  on  my  lip 
To  interpret  what  ye  say. 

Were  it  not  better,  then, 
To  let  the  treasures  rest 

Hid  from  the  eyes  of  men, 
Locked  in  their  iron  chest? 

I  have  but  marked  the  place, 
But  half  the  secret  told, 

That,  following  this  slight  trace, 
Others  may  find  the  gold. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

WILL  ever  the  dear  dajrs  come  back  again, 
Those  days  of  June,  when  lilacs  were  in  bloom, 
And  bluebirds  sang  their  sonnets  in  the  gloom 
Of  leaves  that  roofed  them  in  from  sun  or  rain? 

I  know  not;  but  a  presence  will  remain 
Forever  and  forever  in  this  room, 
Formless,  diffused  in  air,  like  a  perfume,  — 
A  phantom  of  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain. 

Delicious  days !  when  every  spoken  word 
Was  like  a  foot-fall  nearer  and  more  near, 
And  a  mysterious  knocking  at  the  gate 


Of  the  heart's  secret  places,  and  we  heard 
In  the  sweet  tumult  of  delight  and  fear 
A  voice  that  whispered,  "  Open,  I  cannot  wait! 


THE  WINE  OF  JURANCON. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES  CORAW. 

LITTLE  sweet  wine  of  Jurancon, 
You  are  dear  to  my  memory  still ! 

With  mine  host  and  his  merry  song, 
Under  the  rose-tree  I  drank  my  nil. 

Twenty  years  after,  passing  that  way, 
Under  the  trellis  I  found  again 

Mine  host,  still  sitting  there  aufrais, 
And  singing  still  the  same  refrain. 

The  Juran9on,  so  fresh  and  bold, 
Treats  me  as  one  it  used  to  know; 

Souvenirs  of  the  days  of  old 
Already  from  the'bottle  flow. 

With  glass  in  hand  our  glances  met; 

We  pledge,  we  drink.     How  sour  it  is  I 
Never  Argenteuil  piquette 

Was  to  my  palate  sour  as  this ! 

And  yet  the  vintage  was  good,  in  sooth; 

The  self-same  juice,  the  self-same  cask! 
It  was  you,  O  gayety  of  my  youth, 

That' failed  in  the  autumnal  flask ! 


AT  LA   CHAUDEAU.  — MEMORIES. 


299 


AT  LA  CHAUDEAU. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF   XAVIEK   MARMIER. 

AT  La  Chaudeau,  —  't  is  long;  since  then : 
I  was  young,  —  my  years  twice  ten ; 
All  things  smiled  on'tlie  happy  boy, 
Dreams  of  love  and  songs  of  joy, 
Azure  of  heaven  and  wave  below, 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

To  La  Chaudeau  I  come  back  old : 
My  head  is  gray,  my  blood  is  cold ; 
Seeking  along  the  meadow  ooze, 
Seeking  beside  the  river  Seymouse, 
The  days  of  my  spring-time  of  long  ago 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau  nor  heart  nor  brain 
Ever  grows  old  with  grief  and  pain; 
A  sweet  remembrance  keeps  off  age: 
A  tender  friendship  doth  still  assuage 
The  burden  of  sorrow  that  one  may  know 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  had  fate  decreed 
To  limit  the  wandering  life  I  lead, 
Peradventure  I  still,  forsooth, 
Should  have  preserved  my  fresh  green  youth, 
iJnder  the  shadows  the  hill-tops  throw 
At  La  Chaudeau. 


At  La  Chaudeau,  live  on,  my  friends, 
Happy  to  be  where  God  intends; 
And  sometimes,  by  the  evening  fire. 
Think  of  him  whose  sole  desire 
Is  again  to  sit  in  the  old  chateau 
At  La  Chaudeau. 


A  QUIET  LIFE. 

FROM  THK  FRENCH. 

LET  him  who  will,  by  force  or  fraud  innate, 
Of  courtly  grandeurs  gain  the  slippery  height, 
I,  leaving  not  the  home  of  my  delight. 
Far  from  the  world  and  noise  will  meditate. 

Then,  without  pomps  or  perils  of  the  great, 
I  shall  behold  the  day  succeed  the  night ; 

Behold  the  alternate  seasons  take  their  flight, 
And  in  serene  repose  old  age  await. 

And  so,  whenever  Death  shall  come  to  close 
The- happy  moments  that  my  days  compose, 
I,  full  of  years,  shall  die,  obscure,  alone  ! 

How  wretched  is  the  man,  with  honors  crowned, 
Who,  having  not  the  one  thing  needful  found, 
Dies,  known  ts  all,  but  to  himself  unknown. 
Septembtr  11,  1879. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


LOSS  AND  GAIN. 


N  I  compare 
What  I  have  lost  with  what  I  have  gained, 
What  I  have  missed  with  what  attained, 
Little  room  do  I  rind  for  pride. 

I  am  aware 

How  many  days  have  been  idly  spent  ; 
How  like  an  arrow  the  good  intent 
Has  fallen  short  or  been  turned  aside. 

But  who  shall  dare 

To  measure  loss  and  gain  in  this  wise  ? 
Defeat  may  be  victory  in  disguise  ; 
The  lowest  ebb  is  the  turn  of  the  tide. 


AUTUMN  WITHIN. 

IT  is  autumn ;  not  without, 
But  within  me  is  the  cold. 

Youth  and  spring  are  all  about; 
It  is  I  that  have  grown  old. 

Birds  are  darting  through  the  air, 
Singing,  building  without  rest; 

Life  is  stirring  everywhere. 
Save  within  my  lonely  breast. 

There  is  silence  :  the  dead  leaves 
Fall  and  rustle  and  are  still  ; 

Beats  no  flail  upon  the  sheaves, 

Comes  no  murmur  from  the  mill. 
April  9,  1874. 


VICTOR  AND  VANQUISHED. 

As  one  who  long  hath  fled  with  panting  breath 
Before  his  foe,  bleeding  and  near  to  fall, 
I  turn  and  set  my  back  against  the  wall, 
And  look  thee  in  the  face,  triumphant  Death, 

I  call  for  aid,  and  no  one  answereth ; 

I  am  alone  with  thee,  who  conquerest  all; 
Yet  me  thy  threatening  form  doth  not  appall. 
For  thou  art  but  a  phantom  and  a  wraith. 

Wounded  and  weak,  sword  broken  at  the  hilt, 
With  armor  shattered,  and  without  a  shield, 
I  stand  unmoved;  do  with  me  what  thou  wilt; 

I  can  resist  no  more,  but  will  not  yield. 
This  is  no  tournament  where  cowards  tilt; 
The  vanquished  here  is  victor  of  the  field. 
April  4, 1876. 


MEMORIES. 

OFT  I  remember  those  whom  I  have  known 
In  other  days,  to  whom  my  heart  was  led 
As  by  a  magnet,  and  who  are  not  dead, 
But  absent,  and  their  memories  overgrown 

With  other  thoughts  and  troubles  of  my  own, 
As  graves  with  grasses  are,  and  at  their  head 
The  stone  with  moss  and  lichens  so  o'erspread, 
Nothing  is  legible  but  the  name  alone. 

And  is  it  so  with  them  ?     After  long  years, 
Do  they  remember  me  in  the  same  way, 
And  is  the  memory  pleasant  as  to  me  ? 

I  fear  to  ask ;  yet  wherefore  are  my  fears  ? 
Pleasures,  like  flowers,  may  wither  and  decay, 
And  yet  the  root  perennial  may  be. 
September  23, 1881. 


300 


MY  BOOKS.  — MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


MY  BOOKS. 

SADLY  as  some  old  mediaeval  knight 
Gazed  at  the  arms  he  could  no  longer  wield, 
The  sword  two-handed  and  the  shining  shield 
Suspended  in  the  hall,  and  full  in  sight, 

While  secret  longings  for  the  lost  delight 
Of  tourney  or  adventure  in  the  field 
Came  over  him,  and  tears  but  half  concealed 


Trembled  and  fell  upon  his  beard  of  white, 
So  I  behold  these  books  upon  their  shelf, 

My  ornaments  and  arms  of  other  days ; 

Not  wholly  useless,  though  no  longer  used, 
For  they  remind  me  of  my  other  self, 

Younger  and  stronger,  "and  the  pleasant  ways 

In  which  I  walked,  now  clouded  and  confus'ed. 
December  27, 1881. 


L'EH"VOL 


POSSIBILITIES. 


WHERE  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 
The  Olympian  heights;    whose    singing  shafts 

were  sent 
Straight  to  the  mark,  and  not  from  bows  half 

bent, 

But  with  the  utmost  tension  of  the  thong? 
Where  are  the  stately  argosies  of  song, 

Whose  rushing  keels  made  music  as  they  went 


Sailing  in  search  of  some  new  continent. 

With  all  sail  set,  and  steady  winds  and  strong  ? 

Perhaps  there  lives  some  dreamy  boy,  untaught 
In  schools,  some  graduate  of  the  field  or  street, 
Who  shall  become  a  master  of  the  art, 

An  admiral  sailing  the  high  seas  of  thought, 
Fearless  and  first,  and  steering  with  his  fleet 
For  lands  not  yet  laid  down  in  any  chart. 
January  17, 1882. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Michel,  piu  che  mortal,  Angel  divino. 

ARIOSTO. 

Similamente  operando,  all'  artista 
Ch'  a  1'abito  dell'  arte  e  man  che  trema. 

DANTE,  Par.  xiii.  st.  11. 


DEDICATION. 

NOTHING  that  is  shall  perish  utterly, 
But  perish  only  to  revive  again 
In  other  forms',  as  clouds  restore  in  rain 
The  exhalations  of  the  land  and  sea. 

Men  build  their  houses  from  the  masonry 
Of  ruined  tombs  ;  the  passions  and  the  pain 
Of  hearts,  that  long  have  ceased  to  beat,  remain 
To  throb  in  hearts  that  are,  or  are  to  be. 

So  from  old  chronicles,  where  sleep  in  dust 
Names  that  once  filled  the  world  with  trumpet 

tones, 

I  build  this  verse;  and   flowers  of    song  have 
thrust 

Their  roots  among  the  loose  disjointed  stones, 
Which  to  this  end  I  fashion  as  I  must. 
Quickened  are  they  that  touch  the  Prophet's 
bones. 

PART  FIRST. 
I. 

PROLOGUE   AT  ISCHIA. 

The  Castle   Terrace.     VITTOBIA    COLONNA  and 
JULIA  GONZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 

Will  you  then  leave  me,  Julia,  and  so  soon, 
To  pace  alone  this  terrace  like  a  ghost  ? 


To-morrow,  dearest. 


VITTORIA. 


Do  not  say  to-morrow. 

A  whole  month  of  to-morrows  were  too  soon. 
You  must  not  go.    You  are  a  part  of  me. 


JULIA. 
I  must  return  to  Fondi. 

VITTORIA. 

The  old  castle 

Needs  not  your  pi'esence.     No  one  waits  foi  you. 
Stay  one  day  longer  with  me.     They  who  go 
Feel  not  the  pain  of  parting  ;  it  is  they 
Who  stay  behind  that  suffer.     I  was  tninking 
But  yesterday  how  like  and  how  unlike 
Have  been,  and  are,  our  destinies.     Your  husband, 
The  good  Vespasian,  an  old  man,  who  seemed 
A  father  to  you  rather  than  a  husband, 
Died  in  your  arms;  but  mine,  in  all  the  flower 
And  promise  of  his  youth,  was  taken  from  me 
As  by  a  rushing  wind.     The  breath  of  battle 
Breathed  on  him.  and  I  saw  his  face  no  more, 
Save  as  in  dreams  it  haunts  me.     As  our  love 
Was  for  these  men,  so  is  our  sorrow  for  them. 
Yours  a  child's  sorrow,  smiling  through  its  tears; 
But  mine  the  grief  of  an  impassioned  woman, 
Who  drank  her  life  up  in  one  draught  of  love. 

JULIA. 

Behold  this  locket.     This  is  the  white  hair 
Of  my  Vespasian.     This  is  the  flower-of-love, 
This  amaranth,  and  beneath  it  the  device 
Non  moritura.     Thus  my  heart  remains 
True  to  his  memory ;  and  the  ancient  castle, 
Where  we  have  lived  together,  where  he  died, 
Is  dear  to  me  as  Ischia  is  to  you. 

VITTORIA. 

I  did  not  mean  to  chide  you. 

JULIA. 

Let  your  heart 
Find,  if  it  can,  some  poor  apology 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


301 


For  one  who  is  too  young,  and  feels  too  keenly 

The  joy  of  life,  to  give  up  all  her  days 

To  sorrow  for  the  dead.     While  I  am  true 

To  the  remembrance  of  the  man  I  loved 

And  mourn  for  still,  I  do  not  make  a  show 

Of  all  the  grief  I  feel,  nor  live  secluded 

And,  like  Veronica  da  Gambara, 

Drape  my  whole   house   in   mourning,  and   drive 

forth 

In  coach  of  sable  drawn  by  sable  horses, 
As  if  I  were  a  corpse.    Ah,  one  to-day 
Is  worth  for  me  a  thousand  yesterdays. 

VITTORIA. 

Dear  Julia !     Friendship  has  its  jealousies 

As  well  as  love.     Who  waits  for  you  at  Fondi  ? 

JULIA. 

A  friend  of  mine  and  yours;  a  friend  and  friar. 
You  have  at  Naples  your  Fra  Bernadino ; 
And  I  at  Fondi  have  my  Fra  Bastiano, 
The  famous  artist,  who  has  come  from  Rome 
To  paint  my  portrait.     That  is  not  a  sin. 


VITTORIA. 

Are  there  no  brighter  dreams, 
No  higher  aspirations,  than  the  wish 
To  please  and  to  be  pleased  ? 

JULIA. 

For  vou  there  are: 

I  am  no  saint;  I  feel  the  world  we  live  in 
Comes  before  that  which  is  to  be  hereafter 
And  must  be  dealt  with  first. 

VITTORIA. 

But  in  what  way  ? 
JULIA. 

Let  the  soft  wind  that  wafts  to  us  the  odor 
Of  orange  blossoms,  let  the  laughing  sea 
And  the  bright  sunshine  bathing  all  the  world, 
Answer  the  question. 


And  for  whom  is  meant 
This  portrait  that  you  speak  of  ? 


Only  a  vanity. 

JULIA. 

He  painted  yours. 

VITTORIA. 

Do  not  call  up  to  me  those  days  departed 
When  I  was  young,  and  all  was  bright  about  me, 
And  the  vicissitudes  of  life  were  things 
But  to  be  read  of  in  old  histories, 
Though  as  pertaining  unto  me  or  mine 
Impossible.     Ah,  then  I  dreamed  your  dreams, 
And  now,  grown  older,  I  look  back  and  see 
They  were  illusions. 


Yet  without  illusions 

What  would  our  lives  become,  what  we  ourselyes  ? 
Dreams  or  illusions,  call  them  what  you  will, 
They  lift  us  from  the  commonplace  of  life 
To  better  things. 


The  Cardinal  Ippolito. 


For  my  friend 


VITTORIA. 

For  him  V 


Yes,  for  Ippolito  the  Magnificent. 

'T  is  always  flattering  to  a  woman's  pride 

To  be  admired  by  one  whom  all  admire. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah,  Julia,  she  that  makes  herself  a  dove 
Is  eaten  by  the  hawk.     Be  on  your  guard. 
He  is  a  Cardinal ;  and  his  adoration 
Should  be  elsewhere  directed. 


You  forget 

The  horror  of  that  night,  when  Barbarossa, 
The  Moorish  corsair,  landed  on  our  coast 


302 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


To  seize  me  for  the  Sultan  Soliman ; 

How  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  all  were  sleeping, 

He  scaled  the  castle  wall ;  how  I  escaped, 

And  in  my  night-dress,  mounting  a  swift  steed, 

Fled  to  the  mountains,  and  took  refuge  there 

Among  the  brigands.    Then  of  all  my  friends 

The  Cardinal  Ippolito  was  first 

To  come  with  his  retainers  to  my  rescue. 

Could  I  refuse  the  only  boon  he  asked 

At  such  a  time,  my  portrait  ? 


I  have  heard 

Strange  stories  of  the  splendors  of  his  palace, 
And  how,  apparelled  like  a  Spanish  Prince, 
He  rides  through  Rome  with  a  long  retinue 
Of  Ethiopians  and  Numidians 
And  Turks  and  Tartars,  in  fantastic  dresses, 
Making  a  gallant  show.    Is  this  the  way 
A  Cardinal  should  live  ? 


Is  Michael  Angelo. 


JULIA. 

Ah,  your  tame  lion 


You  speak  a  name 

That  always  thrills  me  with  a  noble  sound, 
As  of  a  trumpet !     Michael  Angelo  ! 
A  lion  all  men  fear  and  none  can  tame; 
A  man  that  all  men  honor,  and  the  model 
That  all  should  follow;  one  who  works  and  prays, 
For  work  is  prayer,  and  consecrates  his  life 
To  the  sublime  ideal  of  his  art, 
Till  art  and  life  are  one;  a  man  who  holds 
Such  place  in  all  men's  thoughts,  that  when  they 

speak 

Of  great  things  done,  or  to  be  done,  his  name 
Is  ever  on  their  lips. 


He  is  so  young  ; 

Hardly  of  age,  or  little  more  than  th'at ; 
Beautiful,  generous,  fond  of  arts  and  letters, 
A  poet,  a  musician,  and  a  scholar; 
Master  of  many  languages,  and  a  player 
On  many  instruments.     In  Rome,  his  palace 
Is  the  asylum  of  all  men  distinguished 
In  art  or  science,  and  all  Florentines 
Escaping  from  the  tyranny  of  his  cousin, 
Duke  Alessandro. 

VITTORIA. 

I  have  seen  his  portrait, 
Painted  by  Titian.     You  have  painted  it 
In  brighter  colors. 


And  mv  Cardinal, 

At  Itri,  in  the  courtyard  of  his  palace, 
Keeps  a  tame  lion ! 

VITTORIA. 

And  so  counterfeits 
St.  Mark,  the  Evangelist! 


You  too  can  paint 

The  portrait  of  your  hero,  and  in  colors 
Brighter  than  Titian's ;  I  might  warn  you  also 
Against  the  dangers  that  beset  your  path ; 
But  I  forbear. 


If  I  were  made  of  marble, 
Of  Fior  di  Persico  or  Pavonazzo, 
He  might  admire  me :  being  but  flesh  and  blood, 
I  am  no  more  to  him  than  other  women ; 
That  is,  am  nothing. 


Does  he  ride  through  Rome 
Upon  his  little  mule,  as  he  was  wont, 
With  his  slouched  hat,  and  boots  of  Cordovan, 
As  when  I  saw  him  last  V 

VITTORIA. 

Pray  do  not  jest. 

I  cannot  couple  with  his  noble  name 
A  trivial  word !     Look,  how  the  setting  sun 
Lights  up  Castel-a-mare  and  Sorrento, 
And  changes  Capri  to  a  purple  cloud ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


303 


And  there  Vesuvius  with  its  plume  of  smoke. 
And  the  great  city  stretched  upon  the  shore 
As  in  a  dream ! 

JULIA. 
Parthenope  the  Siren ! 

VITTORIA. 

And  yon  long  line  of  lights,  those  sunlit  windows 
Blaze  like  the  torches  carried  in  procession 
To  do  her  honor  !     It  is  beautiful ! 

JULIA. 

I  have  no  heart  to  feel  the  beauty  of  it ! 

My  feet  are  weary,  pacing  up  and  down 

These  level  flags,  and  wearier  still  my  thoughts 

Treading  the  broken  pavement  of  the  Past. 

It  is  too  sad.     I  will  go  in  and  rest, 

And  make  me  ready  for  to-morrow's  journey. 

VITTORIA. 

I  will  go  with  you ;  for  I  would  not  lose 

One  hour  of  your  dear  presence.     'T  is  enough 

Only  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  you. 

I  need  not  speak  to  you,  nor  hear  you  speak; 

If  I  but  see  you,  I  am  satisfied. 

[They  go  in. 

MONOLOGUE. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO' s  Studio,    ffe  is  at  work  on  the 
cartoon  of  the  Last  Judgment. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Why  did  the  Pope  and  his  ten  Cardinals 
Come  here  to  lay  this  heavy  task  upon  me  ? 
Were  not  the  paintings  on  the  Sistine  ceiling 
Enough  for  them?     They  saw  the  Hebrew  leader 
Waiting,  and  clutching  his  tempestuous  beard, 
But  heeded  not.     The  bones  of  Julius 
Shook  in  their  sepulchre.     I  heard  the  sound; 
They  only  heard  the  sound  of  their  own  voices. 

Are  there  no  other  artists  here  in  Rome 

To  do  this  work,  that  they  must  needs  seek  me  ? 

Fra  Bastian,  my  Fra  Bastian,  might  have  done  it; 

But  he  is  lost  to  art.     The  Papal  Seals, 

Like  leaden  weights  upon  a  dead  man's  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids;  and  so  the  burden  falls 

On  Michael  Angelo,  Chief  Architect 

And  Painter  of  the  Apostolic  Palace. 

That  is  the  title  they  cajole  me  with, 

To  make  me  do  their  work  and  leave  my  own ; 

But  having  once  begun,  I  turn  not  back. 

Blow,  ye  bright  angels,  on  your  golden  trumpets 

To  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  and  wake 

The  dead  to  judgment !     Ye  recording  angels, 

Open  your  books  and  read !     Ye  dead,  awake ! 

Rise  from  your  graves,  drowsy  and  drugged  with 

death, 

As  men  who  suddenly  aroused  from  sleep 
Look  round  amazed,  and  know  not  where  they  are ! 

In  happy  hours,  when  the  imagination 

Wakes  like  a  wind  at  midnight,  and  the  soul 

Trembles  in  all  its  leaves,  it  is  a  joy 

To  be  uplifted  on  its  wings,  and  listen 

To  the  prophetic  voices  in  the  air 

That  call  us  onward.     Then  the  work  we  do 

Is  a  delight,  and  the  obedient  hand 

Never  grows  weary.     But  how  different  is  it 

In  the  disconsolate,  discouraged  hours, 

When  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  appears 

As  trivial  as  the  gossip  of  a  nurse 

In  a  sick-room,  and  all  our  work  seems  useless. 

What  is  it  guides  my  hand,  what  thoughts  possess  me, 
That  I  have  drawn  her  face  among  the  angels, 


Where  she  will  be  hereafter?    O  sweet  dreams, 
That  through  the  vacant  chambers  of  my  heart 
Walk  in  the  silence,  as  familiar  phantoms 
Frequent  an  ancient  house,  what  will  ye  with  me? 
'Tis  said  that  Emperors  write  their  names  in  green 
When  under  age,  but  when  of  age  in  purple. 
So  Love,  the  greatest  Emperor  of  them  all, 
Writes  his  in  green  at  first,  but  afterwards 
In  the  imperial  purple  of  our  blood. 
First  love  or  last  love,  —  which  of  these  two  pas 
sions 

Is  more  omnipotent?    Which  is  more  fair, 
The  star  of  morning  or  the  evening  star? 
The  sunrise  or  the  sunset  of  the  heart? 
The  hour  when  we  look  forth  to  the  unknown, 
And  the  advancing  day  consumes  the  shadows, 
Or  that  when  all  the  landscape  of  our  lives 
Lies  stretched  behind  us,  and  familiar  places 
Gleam  in  the  distance,  and  sweet  memories 
Rise  like  a  tender  haze,  and  magnify 
The  objects  we  behold,  that  soon  must  vanish  ? 

What  matters  it  to  me,  whose  countenance 

Is  like  the  Laocoon's,  full  of  pain  ;  whose  forehead 

Is  a  ploughed  harvest-field,  where  threescore  years 

Have  sown  in  sorrow  and  have  reaped  in  anguish; 

To  me,  the  artisan,  to  whom  all  women 

Have  been  as  if  they  were  not,  or  at  most 

A  sudden  rush  of  pigeons  in  the  air, 

A  flutter  of  wings,  a  sound,  and  then  a  silence? 

I  am  too  old  for  love ;  I  am  too  old 

To  flatter  and  delude  myself  with  visions 

Of  never-ending  friendship  with  fair  women, 

Imaginations,  fantasies,  illusions, 

In  which  the  things  that  cannot  be  take  shape, 

And  seem  to  be,  and  for  the  moment  are. 

[Convent  bells  ring. 

Distant  and  near  and  low  and  loud  the  bells, 
Dominican,  Benedictine,  and  Franciscan, 
Jangle  and  wrangle  in  their  airy  towers, 
Discordant  as  the  brotherhoods  themselves 
In  their  dim  cloisters.     The  descending  sun 
Seems  to  caress  the  city  that  he  loves, 
And  crowns  it  with  the  aureole  of  a  saint. 
I  will  go  forth  and  breathe  the  air  a  while. 

III. 

SAN  SILVESTRO. 

A  Chapel  in  the  Church  of  San  Silvestro  on  Monte 
Cavatto. 

VITTORIA    COLONNA,   CLAUDIO  TOLOMMEI,  and 

others. 

VITTORIA. 

Here  let  us  rest  a  while,  until  the  crowd 
Has  left  the  church.    I  have  already  sent 
For  Michael  Angelo  to  join  us  here. 

MKSSER   CLAUDIO. 

After  Fra  Bernardino's  wise  discourse 
On  the  Pauline  Epistles,  certainly 
Some  words  of  Michael  Angelo  on  Art 
Were  not  amiss,  to  bring  us  back  to  earth. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  at  the  door. 

How  like  a  Saint  or  Goddess  she  appears ; 
Diana  or  Madonna,  which  I  know  not! 
In  attitude  and  aspect  formed  to  be 
At  once  the  artist's  worship  and  despair! 

VITTORIA. 

Welcome,  Maestro.    We  were  waiting  for  yOU. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  met  your  messenger  upon  the  way, 
And  hastened  hither. 


304 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


It  is  kind  of  you 

To  come  to  us,  who  linger  here  like  gossips 
Wasting  the  afternoon  in  idle  talk. 
These  are  all  friends  of  mine  and  friends  of  yours. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  friends  of  yours,  then  are  they  friends  of  mine. 
Pardon  me,  gentlemen.    But  when  I  entered 
I  saw  but  the  Marchesa. 

VITTOKIA. 

Take  this  seat 

Between  me  and  Ser  Claudio  Tolommei, 
Who  still  maintains  that  our  Italian  tongue 
Should  be  called  Tuscan.    But  for  that  offence 
We  will  not  quarrel  with  him. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Eccellenza  — 

VITTOKIA. 

Ser  Claudio  has  banished  Eccellenza 

And  all  such  titles  from  the  Tuscan  tongue. 

MESSER  CLAUDIO. 

'T  is  the  abuse  of  them  and  not  the  use 
I  deprecate. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  use  or  the  abuse, 
It  matters  not.    Let  them  all  go  together, 
As  empty  phrases  and  frivolities, 
And  common  as  gold-lace  upon  the  collar 
Of  an  obsequious  lackey. 

VITTORIA. 

That  may  be, 

But  something  of  politeness  would  go  with  them ; 
We  should  lose  something  of  the  stately  manners 
Of  the  old  school. 

MESSER  CLAUDIO. 

Undoubtedly. 

VITTORIA. 

But  that 

Is  not  what  occupies  my  thoughts  at  present, 
Nor  why  I  sent  for  you,  Messer  Michele. 
It  was  to  counsel  me.     His  Holiness 
Has  granted  me  permission,  long  desired, 
To  build  a  convent  in  this  neighborhood, 
Where  the  old  tower  is  standing,  from  whose  top 
Nero  looked  down  upon  the  burning  city. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

It  is  an  inspiration ! 

VITTORIA. 

I  am  doubtful 

How  I  shall  build ;  how  large  to  make  the  convent, 
And  which  way  fronting. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Ah,  to  build,  to  build! 
That  is  the  noblest  art  of  all  the  arts. 
Painting  and  sculpture  are  but  images, 
Are  merely  shadows  cast,  by  outward  things 
On  stone  or  canvas,  having  in  themselves 
No  separate  existence.     Architecture, 
Existing  in  itself,  and  not  in  seeming 
A  something  it  is  not,  surpasses  them 
As  substance  shadow.     Long,  long  years  ago, 
Standing  one  morning  near  the  Baths  of  Titus, 
I  saw  the  statue  of  Laocoon 
Rise  from  its  grave  of  centuries,  like  a  ghost 
Writhing  in  pain;  and  as  it  tore  away 
The  knotted  serpents  from  its  limbs,  I  heard, 


Or  seemed  to  hear,  the  cry  of  agony 
From  its  white,  parted  lips.    And  still  I  marvel 
At  the  three  Rhodian  artists,  by  whose  hands 
This  miracle  was  wrought.    Yet  he  beholds 
Far  nobler  works  who  looks  upon  the  ruins 
Of  temples  in  the  Forum  here  in  Rome, 
[f  God  should  give  me  power  in  my  old  age 
To  build  for  Him  a  temple  half  as  "grand 
As  those  wdre  in  their  glory,  I  should  count 
My  age  more  excellent  than  youth  itself, 
And  all  that  I  have  hitherto  accomplished 
As  only  vanity. 

VITTORIA. 

I  understand  you. 
Art  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  must  be  used 
Unto  His  glory.    That  in  art  is  highest 
Which  aims  at  this.     When  St.  Hilarion  blessed 
The  horses  of  Italicus,  they  won 
The  race  at  Gaza,  for  his  benediction 
O'erpowered  all  magic;  and  the  people  shouted 
That  Christ  had  conquered  Mamas.     So  that  art 
Which  bears  the  consecration  and  the  seal 
Of  holiness  upon  it  will  prevail 
Over  all  others.     Those  few  words  of  yours 
Inspire  me  with  new  confidence  to  buifd. 
What  think  you?    The  old  walls  might  serve,  per- 

haps, 
Some  purpose  still.    The  tower  can  hold  the  bells. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  strong  enough. 

VITTORIA. 
If  not,  it  can  be  strengthened. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  see  no  bar  nor  drawback  to  this  building, 

And  on  our  homeward  way,  if  it  shall  please  you, 

We  may  together  view  the  sight. 


I  thank  you. 
I  did  not  venture  to  request  so  much. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Let  us  now  go  to  the  old  walls  you  spake  of, 
Vossignoria  — 

VITTORIA. 
What,  again,  Maestro? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Pardon  me,  Messer  Claudio,  if  once  more 
I  use  the  ancient  courtesies  of  speech. 
I  am  too  old  to  change. 

IV. 

CARDINAL  IPPOLITO. 
A  richly  furnished  apartment  in  the  Palace  of  CA& 

DINAL  IPPOLITO.    Night. 
JACOPO  NARDI,  an  old  man,  alone. 


I  am  bewildered.     These  Numidian  slaves, 
In  strange  attire;  these  endless  antechambers; 
This  lighted  hall,  with  all  its  golden  splendors, 
Pictures,  and  statues!     Can  this  be  the  dwelling 
Of  a  disciple  of  that  lowly  Man 
Who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head?    These  statues 
Are  not  of  saints;  nor  is  this  a  Madonna, 
This  lovely  face,  that  with  such  tender  eyes 
Looks  down  upon  me  from  the  painted  canvas. 
My  heart  begins  to  fail  me.     What  can  he 
Who  lives  in  boundless  luxury  at  Rome 
Care  for  the  imperilled  liberties  of  Florence, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


305 


Her  people,  her  Republic?    Ah,  the  rich 
Feel  not  the  pangs  of  banishment.     All  doors 
Are  open  to  them,  and  all  hands  extended. 
The  poor  alone  are  outcasts ;  they  who  risked 
All  they  possessed  for  liberty,  and  lost ; 
And  wander  through  the  woYld  without  a  friend, 
Sick     comfortless,    distressed,   unknown,    uncared 
for. 


Enter  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO,  in  Spanish  cloak  and 
slouched  hat. 


I  pray  you  pardon  me  that  I  have  kept  you 
Waiting  so  long  alone. 


The  Cardinal. 


And  yon  ? 


NARDI. 

I  wait  to  see 

IPPOLITO. 
I  am  the  Cardinal; 

NAEDJ. 

Jacopo  Nardi. 


IPPOLITO. 

You  are  welcome. 

I  was  expecting  you.    Philippe  Strozzi 
Had  told  me  of  your  coming. 


'T  was  his  son 


That  brought  me  to  your  door. 


Pray  you,  be  seated. 
You  seem  astonished  at  the  garb  I  wear, 
But  at  my  time  of  life,  and  with  my  habits, 
The  petticoats  of  a  Cardinal  would  be  — 
Troublesome;  I  could  neither  ride  nor  walk, 
Nor  do  a  thousand  things,  if  I  were  dressed 
Like  an  old  dowager.     It  were  putting  wine 
Young  as  the  young  Astyanax  into  goblets 
As  old  as  Priam. 


Oh,  your  Eminence 
Knows  best  what  vou  should  wear. 


Dear  Messer  Nardi, 

You  are  no  stranger  to  me.     I  have  read 
Your  excellent  translation  of  the  books 
Of  Titus  Livius,  the  historian 
Of  Rome,  and  model  of  all  historians 
That  shall  come  after  him.     It  does  you  honor ; 
But  greater  honor  still  the  love  you  bear 
To  Florence,  our  dear  country,  and  whose  annals 
I  hope  your  hand  will  write,  in  happier  days 
Than  we  now  see. 

NARDI. 

Your  Eminence  will  pardon 
The  lateness  of  the  hour. 

IPPOLITO. 

The  hours  I  count  not 
As  a  sun-dial ;  but  am  like  a  clock, 
That  tells  the  time  as  well  by  night  as  day. 
So,  no  excuse.     I  know  what  brings  you  here. 
You  come  to  speak  of  Florence. 


And  her  woes. 


The  Duke,  my  cousin,  the  black  Alessandro, 
Whose  mother  was  a  Moorish  slave,  that  fed 
The  sheep  upon  Lorenzo's  farm,  still  lives 
And  reigns. 


Alas,  that  such  a  scourge 
Should  fall  on  such  a  citv  ! 


When  he  dies, 

The  Wild  Boar  in  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo, 
The  beast  obscene,  should  be  the  monument 
Of  this  bad  man. 


He  walks  the  streets  at  night 
With  revellers,  insulting  honest  men. 
No  heuse  is  sacred  from  his  lusts.     The  convents 
Are  turned  by  him  to  brothels,  and  the  honor 
Of  women  and  all  ancient  pious  customs 
Are  quite  forgotten  now.     The  offices 
Of  the  Priori  and  Gonfalonieri 
Have  been  abolished.     All  the  magistrates 
Are  now  his  creatures.     Liberty  is  dead. 
The  very  memory  of  all  honest  living 
Is  wiped  away,  and  even  our  Tuscan  tongue 
Corrupted  to  a  Lombard  dialect. 

IPPOLITO. 

And  worst  of  all  his  impious  hand  has  broken 
The  Martinella,  — our  greati)attle  bell, 
That,  sounding  through  three  centuries,  has  led 
The  Florentines  to  victory,  — lest  its  voice 
Should  waken  in  their  souls  some  memory 
Of  far-off  times  of  glory. 


What  a  change 

Ten  little  years  have  made !     We  all  remember 
Those  better  days,  when  Xiccola  Capponi, 
The  Gonfaloniere,  from  the  windows 
Of  the  Old  Palace,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets, 
Proclaimed  to  the  inhabitants  that  Christ 
Was  chosen  King  of  Florence ;  and  already 
Christ  is  dethroned,  and  slain,  and  in  his  stead 
Reigns  Lucifer !     Alas,  alas,  for  Florence ! 


Lilies  with  lilies,  said  Savanorola ; 
Florence  and  France  !    But  I  say  Florence  only, 
Or  only  with  the  Emperor's  hand  to  help  us 
In  sweeping  out  the  rubbish. 


Of  help  is  there  from  him. 


Little  hope 
He  has  betrothed 


His  daughter  Margaret  to  this  shameless  Duke. 
What  hope  have  we  from  such  an  Emperor? 


Baccio  Valori  and  Philippo  Strozzi, 

Once  the  Duke's  friends  and  intimates,  are  with  UB, 

And  Cardinals  Salvati  and  Ridolfi. 

We  shall  soon  see,  then,  as  Valori  says, 

Whether  the  Duke  can  best  spare  honest  men, 

Or  honest  men  the  Duke. 


We  have  determined 
To  send  ambassadors  to  Spain,  and  lay 
Our  griefs  before  the  Emperor,  though  I  fear 
More  than  I  hope. 

IPPOLITO. 

The  Emperor  is  busy 
With  this  new  war  against  the  Algerines, 


306 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


And  has  no  time  to  listen  to  complaints 
From  our  ambassadors ;  nor  will  I  trust  them, 
But  go  myself.    All  is  in  readiness 
For  my  departure,  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  shall  go  down  to  Itri,  where  I  meet 
Dante  da  Castiglione  and  some  others, 
Republicans  and  fugitives  from  Florence, 
And  then  take  ship  at  Gaeta,  and  go 
To  join  the  Emperor  in  his  new  crusade 
Against  the  Turk.    I  shall  have  time  enough 
And  opportunity  to  plead  our  cause. 

NARDI,  rising. 

It  is  an  inspiration,  and  I  hail  it 

As  of  good  omen.     May  the  power  that  sends  it 

Bless  our  beloved  country,  and  restore 

Its  banished  citizens.     The  soul  of  Florence 

Is  now  outside  its  gates.     What  lies  within 

Is  but  a  corpse,  corrupted  and  corrupting. 

Heaven  help  us  all.    I  will  not  tarry  longer, 

For  you  have  need  of  rest.    Good-night. 


Good-night ! 
Enter  FRA  SEBASTIANO  ;  Turkish  attendants. 


Fra  Bastiano,  how  your  portly  presence 
Contrasts  with  that  of  the  spare  Florentine 
Who  has  just  left  me ! 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

As  we  passed  each  other, 
I  saw  that  he  was  weeping. 


Poor  old  man ' 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 


Who  Is  he? 


Jacopo.Nardi.    A  brave  soul; 
One  of  the  Fuoruseiti,  and  the  best 
And  noblest  of  them  all ;  but  he  has  made  me 
Sad  with  his  sadness.     As  I  look  on  you 
My  heart  grows  lighter.    I  behold  a  man 
Who  lives  in  an  ideal  world,  apart 
From  all  the  rude  collisions  of  our  life, 
In  a  calm  atmosphere. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Your  Eminence 

Is  surely  jesting.     If  you  knew  the  life 
Of  artists  as  I  know  it,  you  might  think 
Far  otherwise. 


But  wherefore  should  I  jest? 
The  world  of  art  is  an  ideal  world,  — 
The  world  I  love,  and  that  I  fain  would  live  in; 
So  speak  to  me  of  artists  and  of  art, 
Of  all  the  painters,  sculptors  and  musicians 
That  now  illustrate  Rome. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Of  the  musicians, 

I  know  but  Goudimel,  the  brave  maestro 
And  chapel-master  of  his  Holiness, 
Who  trains  the  Papal  choir. 


In  church  this  morning, 
I  listened  to  a  mass  of  Goudimel, 
Divinely  chanted.     In  the  Incarnatus, 
In  lieu  of  Latin  words,  the  tenor  sang 


With  infinite  tenderness,  in  plain  Italian, 
A  Neapolitan  love-song. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

You  amaze  me. 
Was  it  a  wanton  song  ? 


Not  a  divine  one. 

I  am  not  over-scrupulous,  as  you  know, 
In  word  or  deed,  yet  such  a  song  as  that, 
Sung  by  the  tenor  of  the  Papal  choir, 
And  in  a  Papal  mass,  seemed  out  of  place; 
There's  something  wrong  in  it. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

There  's  something  wrong 
In  everything.     We  cannot  make  the  world 
Go  righ't.     'T  is  not  my  business  to  reform 
The  Papal  choir. 


Nor  mine,  thank  Heaven! 
Then  tell  me  of  the  artists. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

Naming  one 

I  name  them  all ;  for  there  is  only  one : 
His  name  is  Messer  Michael  Ang'elo. 
All  arts  and  artists  of  the  present  day 
Centre  in  him. 

IPPOLITO. 
You  count  yourself  as  nothing  ? 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Or  less  than  nothing,  since  I  am  at  best 
Only  a  portrait-painter;  one  who  draws 
With  greater  or  less  skill,  as  best  he  may, 
The  features  of  a  face. 


And  you  have  had 

The  honor,  nay,  the  glory,  of  portraying 
Julia  Gonzaga!     Do  vou  count  as  nothing 
A  privilege  like  that  V    See  there  the  portrait 
Rebuking  you  with  its  divine  expression. 
Are  you  not  penitent  V    He  whose  skilful  hand 
Painted  that  lovely  picture  has  not  right 
To  vilipend  the  art  of  portrait-painting.  • 
But  what  of  Michael  Angelo  ? 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

But  lately 

Strolling  together  down  the  crowded  Corso, 
We  stopped,  well  pleased,  to  see  your  Eminence 
Pass  on  an  Arab  steed,  a  noble  creature, 
Which  Michael  Angelo,  who  is  a  lover 
Of  all  things  beautiful,  especially 
When  they  are  Arab  horses,  much  admired, 
And  could"  not  praise  enough. 

IPPOLITO,  to  an  attendant. 

Hassan,  to-morrow 

When  I  am  gone,  but  not  till  I  am  gone,  — 
Be  careful  about  that,  —  take  Barbarossa 
To  Messer  Michael  Angelo,  the  sculptor, 
Who  lives  there  at  Macello  dei  Corvi, 
Near  to  the  Capitol ;  and  take  besides 
Some  ten  mule-loads  of  provender,  and  say 
Your  master  sends  them  to  him  as  a  present. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

A  princely  gift.     Though  Michael  Angelo 
Refuses  presents  from  his  Holiness, 
Yours  he  will  not  refuse. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


307 


IPPOLITO. 

You  think  him  like 

Ihymcetes,  who  received  the  wooden  horse 
Into  the  walls  of  Troy.     That  book  of  Virgil 
Have  I  translated  in  Italian  verse, 
And  shall,  some  day,  when  we  have  leisure  for  it 
Be  pleased  to  read  you.     When  I  speak  of  Troy 
I  am  reminded  of  another  town 
And  of  a  lovelier  Helen,  our  dear  Countess 
Julia  Gonzaga.    You  remember,  surely, 
The  adventure  with  the  corsair  Barbarossa, 
And  all  that  followed  ? 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

A  most  strange  adventure; 
A  tale  as  marvellous  and  full  of  wonder 
As  any  in  Boccaccio  or  Sacchetti ; 
Almost  incredible ! 


To-morrow  with  the  sword.     Hassan,  come  hither; 
Bring  me  the  Turkish  scimitar  that  hangs 
Beneath  the  picture  yonder.     Now  unsheathe  it. 
T  is  a  Damascus  blade;  you  see  the  inscription 
In  Arabic :  La  Allah  ilia  Allah,  — 
There  is  no  God  but  God. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

How  beautiful 

In  fashion  and  in  finish !     It  is  perfect. 
The  Arsenal  of  Venice  cannot  boast 
A  finer  sword. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  like  it  ?    It  is  yours. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

You  do  not  mean  it. 


Were  I  a  painter 

I  should  not  want  a  better  theme  than  that: 
The  lovely  lady  fleeing  through  the  night 
In  wild  disorder;  and  the  brigands'  camp 
With  the  red  fire-light  on  their  swarthy  faces. 
Could  you  not  paint  it  for  me  ? 


FRA   SEBASTIANO. 


It  is  not  in  my  line. 


No,  not  I. 


IPPOLITO. 

Then  you  shall  paint 

The  portrait  of  the  corsair,  when  we  bring  him 
A  prisoner  chained  to  Naples :  for  I  feel 
Something  like  admiration  for  a  man 
Who  dared  this  strange  adventure. 


FRA    SEBASTIANO. 


But  catch  the  corsair  first. 


I  will  do  it. 


IPPOLITO. 

You  may  begin 


IPPOLITO. 

I  am  not  a  Spaniard, 

To  say  that  it  is  yours  and  not  to  mean  it. 
I  have  at  Itri  a  whole  armory 
Full  of  such  weapons.     When  you  paint  the  por 
trait 

Of  Barbarossa,  it  will  be  of  use. 
You  have  not  been  rewarded  as  you  should  be 
For  painting  the  Gonzaga.    Throw  this  bauble 
Into  the  scale,  and  make  the  balance  equal. 
Till  then  suspend  it  in  your  studio; 
You  artists  like  such  trifles. 

FKA   SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  keep  it 
In  memory  of  the  donor.     Many  thanks. 

IPPOLITO. 

Fra  Bastian,  I  am  growing  tired  of  Rome, 
The  old  dead  city,  with  the  old  dead  people ; 
Priests  everywhere,  like  shadows  on  a  wall, 
And  morning,  noon,  and  night  the  ceaseless  sound 
Of  convent  bells.    I  must  be  gone  from  here; 
Though  Ovid  somewhere  says  that  Rome  is  worthy 
To  be  the  dwelling-place  of 'all  the  Gods, 


308 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


I  must  be  gone  from  here.     To-morrow  morning 

I  start  for  Itri,  and  go  thence  by  sea 

To  join  the  Emperor,  who  is  making  war 

Upon  the  Algerines ;  perhaps  to  sink 

Some  Turkish  galleys,  and  bring  back  in  chains 

The  famous  corsair.     Thus  would  I  avenge 

The  beautiful  Gonzaga. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

An  achievement 

Worthy  of  Charlemagne,  or  of  Orlando. 
Berni  and  Ariosto  both  shall  add 
A  canto  to  their  poems,  and  describe  you 
As  Furioso  and  Innamorato. 
Now  I  must  say  good-night. 


You  must  not  go; 

First  you  shall  sup  with  me.    My  seneschal, 
Gipvan  Andrea  dal  Borgo  a  San'Sepolcro,  — 
I  like  to  give  the  whole  sonorous  name. 
It  sounds  so  like  a  verse  of  the  ^Eneid,  — 
Has  brought  me  eels  fresh  from  the  Lake  of  Fondi, 
And  Lucrine  oysters  cradled  in  their  shells : 
These,  with  red  Fondi  wine,  the  Caecuban 
That  Horace  speaks  of,  under  a  hundred  keys, 
Kept  safe,  until  the  heir  of  Posthumus 
Shall  stain  the  pavement  with  it,  make  a  feast 
Fit  for  Lucullus,  or  Fra  Bastian  even; 
So  we  will  go  to  supper,  and  be  merry. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Beware !    Remember  that  Bolsena's  eels 

And  Vernage  wine  once  killed  a  Pope  of  Some ! 

IPPOLITO. 

'T  was  a  French  Pope;  and  then  so  long  ago; 
Who  knows  ?  —  perhaps  the  story  is  not  true. 


BORGO   DELLE   VERGINE   AT  NAPLES. 

Room  in  the  Palace  of  JULIA  GONZAGA.    Night. 

JULIA  GONZAGA,  GIOVANNI  VALDESSO. 


Do  not  go  yet. 


VALDESSO. 


The  night  is  far  advanced} 
I  fear  to  stay  too  late,  and  weary  you 
With  these  discussions. 


I  have  much  to  say. 

I  speak  to  j'ou,  Valdesso,  with  that  frankness 
Which  is  the  greatest  privilege  of  friendship, 
Speak  as  I  hardly  would  to  my  confessor, 
Such  is  my  confidence  in  you. 

VALDESSO. 

Dear  Countess, 

If  loyalty  to  friendship  be  a  claim 
Upon  your  confidence,  then  I  may  claim  it. 


Then  sit  again,  and  listen  unto  things 
That  nearer  are  to  me  than  life  itself. 

VALDESSO. 

In  all  things  I  am  happy  to  obey  you, 

And  happiest  then  when  you  command  me  most. 

JULIA. 

Laying  aside  all  useless  rhetoric, 

That  is  superfluous  between  us  two 

I  come  at  once  unto  the  point,  and  say, 

You  know  my  outward  life,  my  rank" and  fortune; 


Countess  of  Fondi   Duchess  of  Trajetto, 
A  widow  rich  and  flattered,  for  whose  hand 
In  marriage  princes  ask,  and  ask  it  only 
To  be  rejected.    All  the  world  can  offer 
Lies  at  my  feet.     If  I  remind  you  of  it, 
It  is  not  in  the  way  of  idle  boasting, 
But  only  to  the  better  understanding 
Of  what  conies  after. 


God  hath  given  you  also 
Beauty  and  intellect;  and  the  signal  grace 
To  lead  a  spotless  life  amid  temptations, 
That  others  yield  to. 


But  the  inward  life,  — 

That  you  know  not ;  't  is  known  but  to  myself, 
And  is  to  me  a  mystery  and  pain. 
A  soul  disquieted,  and  ill  at  ease, 
A  mind  perplexed  with  doubts  and  apprehensions, 
A  heart  dissatisfied  with  all  around  me, 
And  with  myself,  so  that  sometimes  I  weep, 
Discouraged  and  disgusted  with  the  world. 

VALDESSO. 

Whene'er  we  cross  a  river  at  a  ford, 
If  we  would  pass  in  safety,  we  must  keep 
Our  eyes  fixed  steadfast  on  the  shore  beyond, 
For  it  we  cast  them  on  the  flowing  stream, 
The  heads  swims  with  it;  so  if  we  would  cross 
The  running  flood  of  things  here  in  the  world, 
Our  souls  must  not  look  down,  but  fix  their  sight 
On  the  firm  land  beyond. 


I  comprehend  you. 

You  think  I  am  too  worldly  that  my  head 
Swims  with  the  giddying  whirl  of  life  about  me. 
Is  that  your  meaning  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Yes;  your  meditations 
Are  more  of  this  world  and  its  vanities 
Than  of  the  world  to  come. 


JULIA. 


I  am  confused. 


Between  the  two 


Yet  have  I  seen  you  listen 
Enraptured  when  Fra  Bernardino  preached 
Of  faith  and  hope  and  charity. 


I  listen, 

But  only  as  to  music  without  meaning. 
It  move's  me  for  the  moment,  and  I  think 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  a  saint, 
As  dear  Vittoria  is ;  but  I  am  weak 
And  wayward,  and  I  soon  fall  back  again 
To  my  old  ways,  so  very  easily. 
There  are  too  many  week-days  for  one  Sunday. 

VALDESSO. 

Then  take  the  Sunday  with  you  through  the  week, 
And  sweeten  with  it  all  the  other  days. 

JULIA. 

In  part  I  do  so ;  for  to  put  a  stop 

To  idle  tongues,  what  men  might  say  of  me 

If  I  lived  all  alone  here  in  my  palace, 

And  not  from  a  vocation  that  I  feel 

For  the  monastic  life,  I  now  am  living 

With  Sister  Caterina  at  the  convent 

Of  Santa  Chiara,  and  I  come  here  only 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


3oy 


On  certain  days,  for  my  affairs,  or  visits 

Of  ceremony,  or  to  be  with  friends. 

For  I  confess,  to  live  among  my  friends 

Is  Paradise  to  me ;  my  Purgatory 

Is  living'  among  people  I  dislike. 

And  so  I  pass  my  life  in  these  two  worlds, 

This  palace  and  the  convent. 

VALDESSO. 

It  was  then 

The  fear  of  man,  and  not  the  love  of  God, 
That  led  you  to  this  step.     Why  will  you  not 
Give  all  vour  heart  to  God? 


If  God  commands  it, 

Wherefore  hath  He  not  made  me  capable 
Of  doing  for  Him  what  I  wish  to  do 
As  easily  as  I  could  offer  Him 
This  jewel  from  my  hand,  this  gown  I  wear, 
Or  aught  else  that  is  mine  V 

VALDESSO. 

The  hindrance  lies 
In  that  original  sin,  by  which  all  fell. 

JULIA. 

Ah  me,  I  cannot  bring  my  troubled  mind 
To  wish  well  to  that  Adam,  our  first  parent, 
Who  by  his  sin  lost  Paradise  for  us, 
And  brought  such  ills  upon  us. 

VALDESSO. 

We  ourselves, 

When  we  commit  a  sin,  lose  Paradise, 
As  much  as  he  did.     Let  us  think  of  this, 
And  how  we  may  regain  it. 


Teach  me,  then, 

To  harmonize  the  discord  of  my  life, 
And  stop  the  painful  jangle  of  these  wires. 

VALDESSO. 

That  is  a  task  impossible,  until 

You  tune  your  heart-strings  to  a  higher  key 

Than  earthly  melodies. 

JULIA. 

How  shall  I  do  it? 

Point  out  to  me  the  way  of  this  perfection, 
And  I  will  follow  you;  for  you  have  made 
My  soul  enamored  with  it,  and  I  cannot 
Rest  satisfied  until  I  find  it  out. 
But  lead  me  privately,  so  that  the  world 
Hear  not  my  steps;  I  would  not  give  occasion 
For  talk  among  the  people. 

VALDESSO. 

Now  at  last 

I  understand  you  fully.     Then,  what  need 
Is  there  for  us  to  beat" about  the  bush? 
I  know  what  you  desire  of  me. 

JULIA. 

What  rudeness  I 
If  you  already  know  it.  why  not  tell  me? 

VALDESSO. 

Because  I  rather  wait  for  you  to  ask  it 
With  your  own  lips. 

JULIA. 

Do  me  the  kindness,  then, 

To  speak  without  reserve;  and  with  all  frankness, 
If  you  divine  the  truth,  will  I  confess  it. 


I  am  content. 


VALDESSO. 

JULIA. 

Then  speak. 


VALDESSO. 

You  would  be  free 

From  the  vexatious  thoughts  that  come  and  go 
Through  your  imagination,  and  would  have  me 
Point  out  some  royal  road  and  lady-like 
Which  you  may  walk  in.  and  not  wound  your  feet; 
You  would  attain  to  the  divine  perfection," 
And  yet  not  turn  your  back  upon  the  world ; 
You  would  possess  humility  within, 
But  not  reveal  it  in  your  outward  actions; 
You  would  have  patience,  but  without  the  rude 
Occasions  that  require  its  exercise; 
You  would  despise  the  world,  but  in  such  fashion 
The  world  should  not  despise  3-011  in  return  ; 
Would  clothe  the  soul  with  all  the  Christian  graces, 
Yet  not  despoil  the  body  of  its  gauds ; 
Would  feed  the  soul  with  spiritual  food, 
Yet  not  deprive  the  body  of  its  feasts  ; 
Would  seem  angelic  in  the  sight  of  God, 
Yet  not  too  saint-like  in  the  eyes  of  men  ; 
In  short,  would  lead  a  holy  Christian  life 
In  such  a  way  that  even  your  nearest  friend 
Would  not  detect  therein  one  circumstance 
To  show  a  change  from  what  it  was  before. 
Have  I  divined  vour  secret  ? 


You  have  drawn 

The  portrait  of  my  inner  self  as  truly 
As  the  most  skilful  painter  ever  painted 
A  human  face. 

VALDESSO. 

This  warrants  me  in  saying 
You  think  you  can  win  heaven  by  compromise, 
And  not  by  verdict. 

JULIA. 

You  have  often  told  me 
That  a  bad  compromise  was  better  even 
Than  a  good  verdict. 

VALDESSO. 

Yes,  in  suits  at  law ; 
Not  in  religion.     With  the  human  soul 
There  is  no  compromise.     By  faith  alone 
Can  man  be  justified. 

JULIA. 

Hush,  dear  Valdesso; 
That  is  a  heresy.     Do  not,  I  pray  yon. 
Proclaim  it  froin  the  house-top,  but  preserve  it 
As  something  precious,  hidden  in  your  heart, 
As  I,  who  half  believe  and  tremble  at  it. 

VALDESSO. 

I  must  proclaim  the  truth. 

JULIA. 

Enthusiast! 

Why  must  you?     You  imperil  both  yourself 
And  friends   by  your  imprudence.     Pray,  be 


pa 


tient. 


You  have  occasion  now  to  show  that  virtue 
Which  you  lay  stress  upon.     Let  us  return 
To  our  lost  pa'thway.     Show  me  by  what  steps 
I  shall  walk  in  it.  "  [Convent  bells  are  heard. 

VALDESSO. 

Mark  !  the  convent  bells 
Are  ringing;  it  is  midnight;  I  must  leave  you. 


310 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


And  yet  I  linger.     Pardon  me,  dear  Countess, 
Since' you  to-night  have  made  me  your  confessor, 
If  I  so  far  may  venture,  I  will  warn  you 
Upon  one  point. 


What  is  it  ?    Speak,  I  pray  you, 
For  I  have  no  concealments  in  my  conduct; 
All  is  as  open  as  the  light  of  day. 
What  is  it  you  would  warn  me  of  ? 


VALDESSO. 


With  Cardinal  Ippolito. 


Your  friendship 


What  is  there 

To  cause  suspicion  or  alarm  in  that, 
More  than  in  friendships  that  I  entertain 
With  you  and  others  ?    I  ne'er  sat  with  him 
Alone  at  night,  as  I  am  sitting  now 
With  you,  Valdesso. 

VALDESSO. 

Pardon  me ;  the  portrait 
That  Fra  Bastiano  painted  was  for  him. 
Is  that  quite  prudent  ? 


That  is  the  same  question 
Vittoria  put  to  me,  when  I  last  saw  her. 
I  make  you  the  same  answer.     That  was  not 
A  pledge  of  love,  but  of  pure  gratitude. 
Recall  the  adventure  of  that  dreadful  night 
When  Barbarossa  with  two  thousand  Moors 
Landed  upon  the  coast,  and  in  the  darkness 
Attacked  my  castle.     Then  without  delay 
The  Cardinal  came  hurrying  down  from  Rome 
To  rescue  and  protect  me.    Was  it  wrong 
That  in  an  hour  like  that  I  did  not  weigh 
Too  nicely  this  or  that,  but  granted  him 
A  boon  that  pleased  him,  and  that  nattered  me  ? 


Only  beware  lest,  in  disguise  of  friendship, 
Another  corsair,  worse  than  Barbarossa, 
Steal  in  and  seize  the  castle,  not  by  storm 
But  strategy.    And  now  I  take  my  leave. 


Farewell;  but  ere  you  go  look  forth  and  see 
How  night  hath  hushed  the  clamor  and  the  stir 
Of  the  tumultuous  streets.     The  cloudless  moon 
Roofs  the  whole  city  as  with  tiles  of  silver; 
The  dim,  mysterious  sea  in  silence  sleeps  ; 
And  straight  into  the  air  Vesuvius  lifts 
His  plume  of  smoke.     How  beautiful  it  is ! 

[  Voices  in  the  street. 

GIOVAJJ  ANDREA. 
ANOTHER  VOICE. 

Poisoned  ?    Who  is  poisoned  V 

GIOVAN  ANDREA. 


Poisoned  at  Itri. 


The  Cardinal  Ippolito,  my  master. 
Call  it  malaria.    It  was  very  sudden 


[J'u.lia  swoons. 


VI. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

A  room  in  the  Torre  Argentina. 

VITTOSCA  COLONNA  and  JULIA  GONZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 
Come  to  nry  arms  and  to  my  heart  once  more; 


My  soul  goes  out  to  meet  you  and  embrace  you, 
For  we  are  of  the  sisterhood  of  sorrow. 
I  know  what  you  have  suffered. 


Let  me  forget  it. 


Name  it  not. 


VITTORIA. 


I  will  say  no  more. 

Let  me  look  at  you.     What  a  joy  it  is 
To  see  your  face,  to  hear  your  voice  again  ! 
You  bring  with  you  a  breath  as  of  the  morn, 
A  memory  of  the  far-off  happy  days 
When  we  were  young.     When  did  you  come   from 
Fondi?  , 

JULIA. 
I  have  not  been  at  Fondi  since  — 

VITTORIA. 

Ah  me! 
You  need  not  speak  the  word;  I  understand  you. 


I  came  from  Naples  by  the  lovely  valley, 
The  Terra  di  Lavoro. 

VITTORIA. 

And  you  find  me 

But  just  returned  from  a  long  journey  northward. 
I  have  been  staying  with  that  noble  woman 
Rene'e  of  France,  the  Duchess  of  Ferrara. 


Oh,  tell  me  of  the  Duchess.    I  have  heard 
Flaminio  speak  her  praises  with  such  warmth 
That  I  am  eager  to  hear  more  of  her 
And  of  her  brilliant  court. 

VITTORIA. 

You  shall  hear  all. 

But  first  sit  down  and  listen  patiently 
While  I  confess  myself. 


Have  vou  committed  ? 


JULIA. 

What  deadly  sin 


VITTORIA. 


Not  a  sin ;  a  folly. 

I  chid  you  once  at  Ischia,  when  you  told  me 
That  brave  Fra  Bastian  was  to  paint  your  portrait 


Well  I  remember  it. 


Then  chide  me  now, 

For  I  confess  to  something  still  more  strange. 
Old  as  I  am,  I  have  at  last  consented 
To  the  entreaties  and  the  supplications 
Of  Michael  Angelo  — 

JULIA. 

To  marry  him? 
VITTORIA. 

I  pray  you,  do  not  jest  with  me  !    You  know, 
Or  you  should  know,  that  never  such  a  thought 
Entered  my  breast.     I  am  already  married. 
The  Marquis  of  Pescara  is  my  husband, 
And  death  has  not  divorced  us. 


Have  I  offended  you  ? 


Pardon  me 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


311 


VITTOKIA. 


No,  but  have  hurt  me. 
Unto  my  buried  lord  I  give  myself, 
Unto  my  friend  the  shadow  of  myself, 
My  portrait.     It  is  not  from  vanity, 
But  for  the  love  I  bear  him. 


I  rejoice 

To  hear  thesa  w.ords.     Oh,  this  will  be  a  portrait 
Worthy  of  both  of  you  !  [A  knock. 

V1TTORIA. 

Hark !  he  is  coming. 
JULIA. 
And  shall  I  go  or  stay  V 

VITTORIA. 

By  all  means,  stay. 

The  drawing  will  be  better  for  your  presence; 
You  will  enliven  me. 


I  shall  not  speak  ; 

The  presence  of  great  men  doth  take  from  me 
All  power  of  speech.     I  only  gaze  at  them 
In  silent  wonder,  as  if  they  were  gods, 
Or  the  inhabitants  of  some  other  planet. 


Enter  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


VITTORIA. 


Come  in. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  fear  my  visit  is  ill-timed; 
I  interrupt  you- 

VITT>HIA. 

No;  this  is  a  friend 

Of  yours  as  well  as  mine,  —  the  Lady  Julia, 
The  Duchess  of  Trajetto. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO   to   JULIA. 

I  salute  you. 

'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  your  face,  my  lady; 
Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  having  seen  it, 
One  never  can  forget  it. 

JULIA. 

You  are  kind 
To  keep  me  in  your  memory. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

It  is 

The  privilege  of  age  to  speak  with  frankness. 
You  will  not  be  offended  when  I  say 
That  never  was  your  beauty  more  divine. 


When  Michael  Angelo  condescends  to  flatter 
Or  praise  me,  I  am  proud,  and  not  offended. 

VITTOHIA. 

Now  this  is  gallantry  enough  for  one; 
Show  me  a  little. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  my  gracious  lady, 

You  know  I  have  not  words  to  speak  your  praise. 
I  think  of  you  in  silence.     You  conceal 
Your  manifold  perfections  from  all  eyes, 
And  make  yourself  more  saint-like  day  by  day. 
And  day  by  day  men  worship  you  the  more. 
But  now  your  hour  of  martyrdom  has  come. 
You  know  why  I  am  here. 


VITTORIA. 

Ah  yes,  I  know  it; 

And  meet  my  fate  with  fortitude.     You  find  me 
Surrounded  by  the  labors  of  your  hands  : 
The  Woman  of  Samaria  at  the  Well, 
The  Mater  Dolorosa,  and  the  Christ 
Upon  the  Cross,  beneath  which  you  have  written 
Those  memorable  words  of  Alighieri, 
"Men  have  forgotten  how  much  blood  it  costs." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  now  I  come  to  add  one  labor  more, 
If  you  will  call  that  labor  which  is  pleasure, 
And  only  pleasure. 

VITTORIA. 

How  shall  I  be  seated? 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  opening  his  portfolio. 
Just  as  you  are.    The  light  falls  well  upon  yon. 

VITTORIA. 

r  am  ashamed  to  steal  the  time  from  you 
That  should  be  given  to  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
How  does  that  work  go  on  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  draicing. 

But  tardily. 

Old  men  work  slowly.    Brain  and  hand  alike 
Are  dull  and  torpid.    To  die  young  is  best, 
And  not  to  be  remembered  as  old  men 
Tottering  about  in  their  decrepitude. 

VITTORIA. 

My  dear  Maestro!  have  you,  then,  forgotten 
The  story  of  Sophocles  in  his  old  age? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  story  is  it? 

VITTORIA. 

When  his  sons  accused  him, 
Before  the  Areopagus,  of  dotage, 
For  all  defence,  he  read  there  to  his  Judges 
The  Tragedy  of  CEdipus  Coloneus,  — 
The  work  of  his  old  age. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

'T  is  an  illusion, 

A  fabulous  story,  that  will  lead  old  men 
Into  a  thousand"  follies  and  conceits. 


So  you  may  show  to  cavilers  your  painting 
Of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Now  you  and  Lady  Julia  shall  resume 
The  conversation  that  I  interrupted. 

VITTORIA. 

It  was  of  no  great  import;  nothing  more 
Nor  less  than  my  late  visit  to  Ferrara, 
And  what  I  saw"  there  in  the  ducal  palace. 
Will  it  not  interrupt  you  ? 


Not  the  least. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


VITTORIA. 


Well,  first,  then,  of  Duke  Ercole :  a  man 
Cold  in  his  manners,  and  reserved  and  silent, 
And  yet  magnificent  in  all  his  ways; 
Not  hospitable  unto  new  ideas, 
But  from  state  policy,  and  certain  reasons 
Concerning  the  investiture  of  the  duchy, 
A  partisan  of  Koine,  and  consequently 
Intolerant  of  all  the  new  opinions. 


312 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


I  should  not  like  the  Duke.     These  silent  men, 
Who  only  look  and  listen,  are  like  wells 
That  have  no  water  in  them,  deep  and  empty. 
How  could  the  daughter  of  a  king  of  France 
Wed  such  a  duke? 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


The  men  that  women  marry, 
And  why  they  marry  them,  will  always  be 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery  to  the  world. 


And  then  the  Duchess,  — how  shall  I  describe  her, 
Or  tell  the  merits  of  that  happy  nature, 
Which  pleases  most  when  least  it  thinks  of  pleas 
ing? 

Not  beautiful,  perhaps,  in  form  and  feature, 
Yet  witli  an  inward  beauty,  that  shines  through 
Each  look  and  attitude  and  word  and  gesture; 
A  kindly  grace  of  manner  and  behavior, 
A  something  in  her  presence  and  her  ways 
That  makes  her  beautiful  beyond  the  reach 
Of  mere  external  beauty ;  and  in  heart 
So  noble  and  devoted  to  the  truth, 
And  so  in  sympathy  with  all  who  strive 
After  the  higher  life. 


She  draws  me  to  her 
As  much  as  her  Duke  Ercole  repels  me. 

VITTORIA. 

Then  the  devout  and  honorable  women 

That  grace  her  court,  and  make  it  good  to  be  there ; 

Francesca  Bucyronia,  the  true-hearted, 

Lavinia  della  Kovere  and  the  Orsini, 

The  Magdalena  and  the  Cherubina, 

And  Anne  de  Parthenai,  who  sings  so  sweetly; 

All  lovely  women,  full  of  noble  thoughts 

And  aspirations  after  noble  things. 

JULIA. 

Boccaccio  would  have  envied  you  such  dames. 
VITTOEIA. 

No ,-  his  Fiammettas  and  his  Philomenas 
Are  fitter  company  for  Ser  Giovanni ; 
I  fear  he  hardly  would  have  comprehended 
The  women  that  I  speak  of. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Yet  he  wrote 

The  story  of  Griselda.     That  is  something 
To  set  down  in  his  favor. 

VITTORIA. 

With  these  ladies 

Was  a  young  girl,  Olympia  Morata, 
Daughter  of  Fulvio,  the  learned  scholar, 
Famous  in  all  the  universities: 
A  marvellous  child,  who  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
And  in  the  daily  round  of  household  cares, 
Hath  learned  both  Greek  and  Latin ;  and  is  now 
A  favorite  of  the  Duchess  and  companion 
Of  Princess  Anne.    This  beautiful  j'oung  Sappho 
Sometimes  recited  to  us  Grecian  odes 
That  she  had  written,  with  a  voice  whose  sadness 
Thrilled  and  o'ermastered  me,  and  made  me  look 
Into  the  future  time,  and  ask  myself 
What  destiny  will  be  hers. 


A  sad  one,  surely. 

Frost  kills  the  flowers  that  blossom  out  of  season; 
And  these  precocious  intellects  portend 
A  life  of  sorrow  or  an  early  death. 


About  the  court  were  many  learned  men ; 

Chilian  Sinapius  from  beyond  the  Alps, 

And  Celio  Curione,  and  Manzolli, 

The  Duke's  physician;  and  a  pale  young  man, 

Charles  d'Espeville  of  Geneva,  whom  the  Duchess 

Doth  much  delight  to  talk  with  and  to  read, 

For  he  hath  written  a  book  of  Institutes 

The  Duchess  greatly  praises,  though  some  call  it 

The  Koran  of  the  heretics. 


And  what  poets 

Were  there  to  sing  you  madrigals,  and  praise 
Olympia's  eyes  and  Cherubina's  tresses? 

VITTORIA. 

No ;  for  great  Ariosto  is  no  more. 

The  voice  that  filled  those  halls  with  melody 

Has  long  been  hushed  in  death. 


You  should  have  made 
A  pilgrimage  unto  the  poet's  tomb, 
And  laid  a  wreath  upon  it,  for  the  words 
He  spake  of  you. 

VITTORIA. 

And  of  yourself  no  less, 
And  of  our  master,  Michael  Angelo. 


Of  me? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


VITTORIA. 


Have  you  forgotten  that  he  calls  you 
Michael,  less  man  than  angel,  and  divine? 
You  are  ungrateful. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


A  mere  play  on  words. 
That  adjective  he  wanted  for  a  rhyme, 
To  match  with  Gian  Bellino  and  Urbino. 


Bernardo  Tasso  is  no  longer  there, 
Nor  the  gay  troubadour  of  Gascony, 
Clement  Marot,  surnamed  by  flatterers 
The  Prince  of  Poets  and  the  "Poet  of  Princes, 
Who,  being  looked  upon  with  much  disfavor 
By  fhe  Duke  Ercole,  has  fled  to  Venice. 

'  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

There  let  him  stay  with  Pietro  Aretino, 

The  Scourge  of  Princes,  also  called  Divine. 

The  title  is  so  common  in  our  mouths, 

That  even  the  Pifferari  of  Abruzzi, 

Who  play  their  bag-pipes  in  the  streets  of  Rome 

At  the  Epiphany,  wjll  bear  it  soon, 

And  will  deserve  it  better  than  some  poets. 

VITTORIA. 
What  bee  hath  stung  you  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

One  that  makes  no  honey ; 

One  that  comes  buzzing   in   through  every  win 
dow, 

And  stabs  men  with  his  sting.     A  bitter  thought 
Passed  through  my  mind,  but  it  is  gone  again ; 
I  spake  too  hastily. 

JULIA. 

I  pray  you,  show  me 
What  you  have  done. 

MICHAEL,  ANGELO. 

Not  yet ;  it  is  not  finished. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


313 


PART  SECOND. 
I. 

MONOLOGUE. 
,       A  room  in  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  house. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

FLED  to  Viterbo,  the  old  Papal  city 

Where  once  an  Emperor,  humblecf  in  his  pride, 

Held  the  Pope's  stirrup,  as  his  Holiness 

Alighted  from  his  mule!     A  fugitive 

From  Cardinal  Caraffa's  hate,  who  hurls 

His  thunders  at  the  house  of  the  Colonna, 

With  endless  bitterness !  —  Among  the  nuns 

In  Santa  Catarina's  convent  hidden, 

Herself  in  soul  a  nun !     And  now  she  chides  me 

For  my  too  frequent  letters,  that  disturb 

Her  meditations,  and  that  hinder  me 

And  keep  me  from  my  work  ;  now  graciously 

She  thanks  me  for  the  crucifix  I  sent  her, 

And  says  that  she  will  keep  it:  with  one  hand 

Inflicts  a  wound,  and  with  the  other  heals  it. 

[Reading. 

"  Profoundly  I  believed  that  God  would  grant  you 

A  supernatural  faith  to  paint  this  Christ; 

I  wished  for  that  which  I  now  see  fulfilled 

So  marvellously,  exceeding  all  my  wishes. 

Nor  more  could  be  desired,  or  even  so  much. 

And  greatly  I  rejoice  that  you  have  made 

The  angel  on  the  right  so  beautiful; 

For  the  Archangel  Michael  will  place  vou, 

You,  Michael  Angelo,  on  that  new  ASLY, 

Upon  the  Lord's  right  hand  !     And  waiting  that, 

How  can  I  better  serve  you  than  to  pray 

To  this  sweet  Christ  for  you,  and  to  beseech  you 

To  hold  me  altogether  yours  in  all  things." 

Well,  I  will  write  less  often,  or  no  more. 

But  wait  her  coming.     No  one  born  in  Rome 

Can  live  elsewhere;  but  he  must  pine  for  Rome, 

And  must  return  to  .it.     I,  who  am  born 

And  bred  a  Tuscan  and  a  Florentine, 

Feel  the  attraction,  and  I  linger  here 

As  if  I  were  a  pebble  in  the  pavement 

Trodden  by  priestly  feet.     This  I  endure, 

Because  I  breathe  in  Rome  an  atmosphere 

Heavy  with  odors  of  the  laurel  leaves 

That  crowned  great  heroes  of  the  sw.ord  and  pen, 

In  ages  past.     I  feel  myself  exaked 

To  walk  the  streets  in  which  a  Virgil  walked, 

Or  Trajan  rode  in  triumph;  but  far  more, 

And  most  of  all,  because  the  great  Colonna 

Breathes  the  same  air  I  breathe,  and  is  to  me 

An  inspiration.     Now  that  she  is  gone, 

Rome  is  no  longer  Rome  till  she  return. 

This  feeling  overmasters  me.     1  know  not 

If  it  be  love,  this  strong  desire  to  be 

Forever  in  her  presence;  but  I  know 

That  I.  who  was  the  friend  of  solitude, 

And  ever  was  best  pleased  when  most  alone, 

Now  weary  grow  of  my  own  company. 

For  the  first  time  old  age  seems  lonely  to  me. 

[Opening  the  Divina  Commedia. 
I  turn  for  consolation  to  the  leaves 
Of  the  great  master  of  our  Tuscan  tongue, 
Whose  words,  like  colored  garnet-shirls  in  lava, 
Betray  the  heat  in  which  they  were  engendered. 
A  mendicant,  he  ate  the  bitter  bread 
Of  others,  but  repaid  their  meagre  gifts 
With  immortality.     In  courts  of  princes 
He  was  a  by-word,  and  in  streets  of  towns 
Was  mocked  by  children,  like  the  Hebrew  prophet, 
Himself  a  prophet.     I  too  know  the  cry, 
Go  up,  thou  bald  head !  from  a  generation 
That,  wanting  reverence,  wanteth  the  best  food 
The  soul  can  feed  on.     There  's  not  room  enough 


For  age  and  youth  upon  this  little  planet. 

Age  must  give  way.     There  was  not  room  enough 

Even  for  this  great  poet.     In  his  song 

I  hear  reverberate  the  gates  of  Florence, 

Closing  upon  him,  never  more  to  open; 

But  mingled  with  the  sound  are  melodies 

Celestial  from  the  gates  of  paradise. 

He  came,  and  he  is  gone.     The  people  knew  not 

V\  hat  manner  of  man  was  passing  by  their  doors, 

Until  he  passed  no  more;  but  in  his  Vision 

He  saw  the  torments  and  beatitudes 

Of  souls  condemned  or  pardoned,  and  hath  left 

Behind  him  this  sublime  Apocalypse. 

I  strive  in  vain  to  draw  here  on  the  margin 

The  face  of  Beatrice.     It  is  not  hers, 

But  the  Colonna's.    Each  hath  his  ideal, 

The  image  of  some  woman  excellent, 

That  is  his  guide.     No  Grecian  art,  nor  Roman, 

Hath  yet  revealed  such  loveliness  as  hers. 


II. 

VITERBO. 
VITTORIA  COLONNA  at  the  convent  window. 

VITTORIA.. 

Parting  with  friends  is  temporary  death, 
As  all  death  is.     We  see  no  more  their  faces, 
Nor  hear  their  voices,  save  in  memory ; 
But  messages  of  love  give  us  assurance 
That  we  are  not  forgotten.     Who  shall  say 
That  from  the  world  of  spirits  comes  no  greeting, 
No  message  of  remembrance  ?     It  may  be 
The  thoughts  that  visit  us,  we  know  not  whence, 
Sudden  as  inspiration,  are  the  whispers 
Of  disembodied  spirits,  speaking  to  us 
As  friends,  who  wait  outside  a  prison  wall, 
Through  the  barred  windows  speak  to  those  within. 

[A  pause. 

As  quiet  as  the  lake  that  lies  beneath  me, 
As  quiet  as  the  tranquil  sky  above  me, 
As  quiet  as  a  heart  that  beats  no  more, 
This  convent  seems.     Above,  below,  all  peace! 
Silence  and  solitude,  the  soul's  best  friends, 
Are  with  me  here,  and  the  tumultuous  world 
Makes  no  more  noise  than  the  remotest  planet. 
O  gentle  spirit,  unto  the  third  circle 
Of  heaven  among  the  blessed  souls  ascended, 
Who,  living  in  the  faith  and  dying  for  it, 
Have  gone  to  their  reward,  I  do  not  sigh 
For  thee  as  being  dead,  but  for  myself 
That  I  am  still  alive.     Turn  those  dear  eyes, 
Once  so  benignant  to  me,  upon  mine, 
That  open  to  their  tears  such  uncontrolled 
And  such  continual  issue.     Still  awhile 
Have  patience;  I  will  come  to  thee  at  last. 
A  few  more  goings  in  and  out  these  doors, 
A  few  more  chimings  of  these  convent  bells, 
A  few  more  prayers,  a  few  more  sighs  and  tears, 
And  the  long  agony  of  this  life  will  end, 
And  I  shall  be  with  thee.     If  I  am  wanting 
To  thy  well-being,  as  thou  art  to  mine, 
Have  patience;  I  will  come  to  thee  at  last. 
Ye  minds  ihat  loiter  in  these  cloister  gardens> 
Or  wander  far  above  the  city  walls, 
Bear  unto  him  this  message,  that  I  ever 
Or  speak  or  think  of  him,  or  weep  for  him. 

By  unseen  hands  uplifted  in  the  light 
Of  sunset,  yonder  solitary  cloud 
Floats,  with  its  white  apparel  blown  abroad, 
And  wafted  up  to  heaven.     It  fades  away, 
And  melts  into  the  air.     Ah,  would  that  I 
Could  thus  be  wafted  unto  thee,  Francesco, 
A  cloud  of  white,  an  incorporeal  spirit! 


314 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


III. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO   AND  BENVENUTO  CELLINI. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  BENVENUTO  CELLINI  in  gay 

attire. 

BENVENUTO. 

A  good  day  and  good  vear  to  the  divine 
Maestro  Michael  Angelo,  the  sculptor ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Welcome,  my  Benvenuto. 

BENVENUTO. 

That  is  what 

My  father  said,  the  first  time  he  beheld 
This  handsome  face.     But  say  farewell,  not  wel 
come. 

I  come  to  take  my  leave.     I  ^tart  for  Florence 
As  fast  as  horse  can  carry  me.     I  long 
To  set  once  more  upon  its  level  flags 
These  feet,  made  sore  by  your  vile  Roman  pave 
ments. 

Come  with  me ;  jrou  are  wanted  there  in  Florence. 
The  Sacristy  is  not  finished. 


BENVENUTO. 

Do  you  ne'er  think  of  Florence  ? 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Yes;  whenever 

I  think  of  anything  beside  my  work, 
I  think  of  Florence.     I  remember,  too, 
The  bitter  days  I  passed  among  the  quarries 
Of  Seravezza  and  Pietrasanta; 
Road-building  in  the  marshes;  stupid  people, 
And  cold  and  rain  incessant,  and  mad  gusts 
Of  mountain  wind,  like  howling  dervishes, 
That  spun  and  whirled'  the  eddying  snow  about 

them 

As  if  it  were  a  garment;  aye,  vexations 
And  troubles  of  all  kinds,  that  ended  only 
In  loss  of  time  and  money. 

BENVENUTO. 

True,  Maestro; 

But  that  was  not  in  Florence.    You  should  leave 
Such  work  to  others.     Sweeter  memories 
Cluster  about  you,  in  the  pleasant  city 
Upon  the  Arno. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Speak  not  of  it ! 
How  damp  and  cold  it  was!      How  my  bones 

ached 

And  my  head  reeled,  when  I  was  working  there ! 
I  am  to'o  old.     I  will  stay  here  in  Rome, 
Where  all  is  old  and  crumbling,  like  myself, 
To  hopeless  ruin.     All  roads  lead  to  Rome. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  all  lead  out  of  it. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

There  is  a  charm, 

A  certain  something  in  the  atmosphere, 
That  all  men  feel,  and  no  man  can  describe. 


Malaria? 


BENVENUTO. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


Yes,  malaria  of  the  mind, 
Out  of  this  tomb  of  the  majestic  Past; 
The  fever  to  accomplish  some  great  work 
That  will  not  let  us  sleep.     I  must  go  on 
Until  I  die. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

In  my  waking  dreams 
I  see  the  marvellous  dome  of  Brunelleschi, 
Ghiberti's  gates  of  bronze,  and  Giotto's  tower; 
And  Ghirlandajo's  lovely  Benci  glides 
With  folded  hands  amid  my  troubled  thoughts, 
A  splendid  vision !     Time  rides  with  the  old 
At  a  great  pace.     As  travellers  on  swift  steeds 
See  the  near  landscape  fly  and  flow  behind  them, 
While  the  remoter  fields  and  dim  horizons 
Go  with  them,  and  seem  wheeling  round  lo  meet 

them, 

So  in  old  age  things  near  us  slip  away, 
And  distant  things  go  with  us.     Pleasantly 
Come  back  to  me  the  days  when,  as  a  youth, 
I  walked  with  Ghirlandajo  in  the  gardens 
Of  Medici,  and  saw  the  antique  statues, 
The  forms  august  of  gods  and  godlike  men, 
And  the  great  world  of  art  revealed  itself 
To  my  young  eyes.     Then  all  that  man  hath  done 
Seemed" possible  to  me.     Alas!  how  little 
Of  all  I  dreamed  of  has  my  hand  achieved ! 

BENVENUTO. 

Nay,  let  the  Night  and  Morning,  let  Lorenzo 
And  Julian  in  the  Sacristy  at  Florence, 
Prophets  and  Sibyls  in  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
And  the  Last  Judgment  answer.     Is  it  finished? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


315 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

The  work  is  nearly  done.     But  this  Last  Judgment 

Has  been  the  cause  of  more  vexation  to  me 

Than  it  will  be  of  honor.     Ser  Biagio, 

Master  of  ceremonies  at  the  Papal  court, 

A  man  punctilious  and  over  nice, 

Calls  it  improper ;  says  that  those  nude  forms, 

Showing  their  nakedness  in  such  shameless  fashion, 

Are  better  suited  to  a  common  bagnio, 

Or  wayside  wine-shop,  than  a  Papal  Chapel. 

To  punish  him  I  painted  him  as  Minos, 

And  leave  him  there  as  master  of  ceremonies 

In  the  Infernal  Regions.     What  would  you 

Have  done  to  such  a  man? 

BENVENUTO. 

I  would  have  killed  him. 
When  an}'  one  insults  me,  if  I  can 
I  kill  him,  kill  him. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Oh,  you  gentlemen, 

Who  dress  in  silks  and  velvets,  and  wear  swords, 
Are  ready  with  your  weapons,  and  have  all 
A  taste  for  homicide. 


All  skill  in  art  and  all  desire  of  fame. 

Were  swallowed  up  in  the  delightful  music 

Of  that  artillery.     I  saw  far  off, 

Within  the  enemy's  trenches  on  the  Prati, 

A  Spanish  cavalier  in  scarlet  cloak; 

And  tiring  at  him  with  due  aim  and  range, 

I  cut  the  gay  Hidalgo  in  two  pieces. 

The  eves  are  dry  that  wept  for  him  in  Spain. 

His  Holiness,  delighted  beyond  measure 

With  such  display  of  gunnery,  and  amazed 

To  see  the  man  in  scarlet  cut'in  two, 

Gave  me  his  benediction,  and  absolved  me 

From  all  the  homicides  I  had  committed 

In  service  of  the  Apostolic  Church, 

Or  should  commit  thereafter.     From  that  day 

I  have  not  held  in  very  high  esteem 

The  life  of  man. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  who  absolved  Pope  Clement  ? 
Now  let  us  speak  of  art. 

BENVENUTO. 

Of  what  you  wilL 


BENVENUTO. 

I  learned  that  lesson 

Under  Pope  Clement  at  the  siege  of  Rome, 
Some  twenty  years  ago.     As  I  was  standing 
Upon  the  ramparts  of  the  Campo  Santo 
With  Alessandro  Beni,  I  beheld 
A  sea  of  fog,  that  covered  all  the  plain, 
And  hid  from  us  the  foe ;  when  suddenly, 
A  misty  figure,  like  an  apparition, 
Rose  up  above  the  fog,  as  if  on  horseback. 
At  this  I  aimed  my  arquebus,  and  fired. 
The  figure  vanished ;  and  there  rose  a  cry 
Out  of  the  darkness,  long  and  tierce  and  loud, 
With  imprecations  in  all  languages. 
It  was  the  Constable  of  France,  the  Bourbon, 
That  I  had  slain. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Rome  should  be  grateful  to  you. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  has  not  been ;  you  shall  hear  presently. 
During  the  siege  I  served  as  bombardier, 
There  in  St.  Angelo.     His  Holiness, 
One  day,  was  walking  with  his  Cardinals 
On  the  round  bastion,  while  I  stood  above 
Among  my  falconets.     All  thought  and  feeling, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


Say,  have  you  seen  our  friend  Fra  Bastian  lately, 
Since  by  a  turn  of  fortune  he  became 
Friar  of  the  Signet? 

BENVENUTO. 

Faith,  a  pretty  artist 

To  pass  his  days  in  stamping  leaden  seals 
On  Papal  bulls! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

He  has  grown  fat  and  lazy, 
As  if  the  lead  clung  to  him  like  a  sinker. 
He  paints  no  more,  since  he  was  sent  to  Fondi 
By  Cardinal  Ippolito  to  paint 

The  fair  Gonzaga.     Ah,  you  should  have  seen  him 
As  I  did,  riding  through  the  city  gate, 
In  his  brown  hood,  attended  by  four  horsemen, 
Completely  armed,  to  frighten  the  banditti. 
I  think  he" would  have  frightened  them  alone, 
For  he  was  rounder  than  the  O  of  Giotto. 

BENVENUTO. 

He  must  have  looked  more  like  a  sack  of  meal 
Than  a  great  painter. 


316 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Well,  he  is  not  great, 
But  still  I  like  him  greatly.     Benvenuto, 
Have  faith  in  nothing  but  in  industry. 
Be  at  it  late  and  early ;  persevere, 
And  work  right  on  through  censure  and  applause, 
Or  else  abandon  Art. 


Than  I  do. 


BENVENUTO. 

No  man  works  harder 
I  am  not  a  moment  idle. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  what  have  you  to  show  me  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

This  gold  ring, 

Made  for  his  Holiness,  —  my  latest  work, 
And  I  am  proud  of  it.     A  single  diamond, 
Presented  by  the  Emperor  to  the  Pope. 
Targhetta  of  Venice  set  and  tinted  it ; 
I  have  reset  it,  and  retinted  it 
Divinely,  as  you  see.     The  jewellers 
Say  I  've  surpassed  Targhetta. 


A  pretty  jewel. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Let  me  see  it. 


BENVENUTO. 


That  is  not  the  expression. 
Pretty  is  not  a  very  pretty  word 
To  be  applied  to  such  a  precious  stone, 
Given  by  an  Emperor  to  a  Pope,  and  set 
By  Benvenuto ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Messer  Benvenuto, 

I  lose  all  patience  with  you ;  for  the  gifts 
That  God  hath  given  you  are  of  such  a  kind, 
They  should  be  put  to  far  more  noble  uses 
Than  setting  diamonds  for  the  Pope  of  Rome. 
You  can  do  greater  things. 

BENVENUTO. 

The  God  who  made  me 

Knows  why  he  made  me  what  I  am,  —  a  gold 
smith, 
A  mere  artificer. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Oh  no;  an  artist, 

Richly  endowed  by  nature,  but  who  wraps 
His  talent  in  a  napkin,  and  consumes 
His  life  in  vanities. 

BENVENUTO. 

Michael  Angelo 

May  say  what  Benvenuto  would  not  bear 
From  any  other  man.     He  speaks  the  truth. 
I  know  my  life  is  wasted  and  consumed 
In  vanities ;  but  I  have  better  hours 
And  higher  aspirations  than  you  think. 
Once,  when  a  prisoner  at  St.  Angelo, 
Fasting  and  praying  in  the  midnight  darkness, 
In  a  celestial  vision  I  beheld 
A  crucifix  in  the  sun,  of  the  same  substance 
As  is  the  sun  itself.     And  since  that  hour 
There  is  a  splendor  round  about  my  head, 
That  may  be  seen  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset 
Above  my  shadow  on  the  grass.     And  now 
I  know  that  I  am  in  the  grace  of  God, 
And  none  henceforth  can  harm  me. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

None  but  one,  — 
None  but  yourself,  who  are  your  greatest  foe. 


He  that  respects  himself  is  safe  from  others ; 
He  wears  a  coat  of  mail  that  none  can  pierce. 


BENVENUTO. 


I  always  wear  one. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

0  incorrigible ! 
At  least,  forget  not  the  celestial  vision. 
Man  must  have  something  higher  than  himself 
To  think  of. 

BENVENUTO. 

That  I  know  full  well.     Now  listen. 
I  have  been  sent  for  into  France,  where  grow 
The  Lilies  that  illumine  heaven  and  earth, 
And  carry  in  mine  equipage  the  model 
Of  a  most  marvellous  golden  salt-cellar 
For  the  king's  table ;  and  here  in  my  brain 
A  statue  of  Mars  Armipotent  for  the  fountain 
Of  Fontainebleau,  colossal,  wonderful. 
I  go  a  goldsmith,  to  return  a  sculptor. 
And  so  farewell,  great  Master.     Think  of  me 
As  one  who,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  follies, 
Had  also  his  ambition,  and  aspired 
To  better  things. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Do  not  forget  the  vision. 
[Sitting  down  again  to  the  Divina  Commedfa. 
Now  in  what  circle  of  his  poem  sacred 
Would  the  great  Florentine  have  placed  this  man? 
Whether  in  Phlegethon,  the  river  of  blood, 
Or  in  the  fiery  belt  of  Purgatory, 
I  know  not,  but  most  surely  not  with  those 
Who  walk  in  leaden  cloaks.     Though  he  is  one    . 
Whose  passions,  like  a  potent  alkahest, 
Dissolve  his  better  nature,  he  is  not 
That  despicable  thing,  a  hypocrite; 
He  doth  not  cloak  his  vices,  nor  deny  them. 
Come  back,  my  thoughts,  from  him  to  Paradise. 

IV. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO   DEL  PIOMBO. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  ;  FRA  SEBASTIANO    DEL  PI 
OMBO. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  not  turning  round. 
Who  is  it? 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Wait,  for  I  am  out  of  breath 
In  climbing  your  steep  stairs. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  my  Bastiano, 

If  you  went  up  and  down  as  many  stairs 
As  I  do  still,  and  climbed  as  many  ladders, 
It  would  be  better  for  you.     Pray  sit  down. 
Your  idle  and  luxurious  way  of  living 
Will  one  day  take  your  breath  away  entirely, 
And  you  will  never  find  it. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Well,  what  then  ? 

That  would  be  better,  in  my  apprehension, 
Than  falling  from  a  scaffold. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

That  was  nothing. 

It  did  not  kill  me ;  only  lamed  me  slightly 
I  am  quite  well  again. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

But  why,  dear  Master, 
Whv  do  you  live  so  high  up  in  your  house, 
When  you  could  live  below  and  have  a  garden, 
As  I  do"? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


317 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

From  this  window  I  can  look 
On  many  gardens  ;  o'er  the  city  roofs 
See  the  Campagna  and  the  Alb'an  hills: 
And  all  are  mine. 

FKA   SEBASTIANO. 

Can  you  sit  down  in  them, 
On  summer  afternoons,  and  play  the  lute, 
Or  sing,  or  sleep  the  time  away"? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  never 

Sleep  in  the  day-time  ;  scarcely  sleep  at  night. 
1  have  not  time.     Did  you  meet  Benvenuto 
As  you  came  up  the  stair? 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

He  ran  against  me 

On  the  first  landing,  going  at  full  speed; 
Dressed  like  the  Spanish  captain  in  a  play, 
With  his  long  rapier  and  his  short  red  cloak. 
Why  hurry  through  the  world  at  such  a  pace? 
Life  will  not  be  too  long. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

It  is  his  nature,  — 

A  restless  spirit,  that  consumes  itself 
With  useless  agitations.     He  o'erleaps 
The  goal  lie  aims  at.     Patience  is  a  plant 
That  grows  not  in  all  gardens.     You  are  made 
Of  quite  another  clay. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  thank  God  for  it. 

And  now,  being  somewhat  rested,  I  will  tell  you 
Why  I  have  climbed  these  formidable  stairs. 
I  have  a  friend,  Francesco  Berni,  here, 
A  very  charming  poet  and  companion, 
Who  greatly  honors  you  and  all  your  doings, 
And  you  must  sup  with  us. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  I,  indeed. 

1  know  too  well  what  artists'  suppers  are. 
You  must  excuse  me. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  not  excuse  you. 

You  need  repose  from  your  incessant  work; 
Some  recreation,  some  bright  hours  of  pleasure. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

To  me,  what  you  and  other  men  call  pleasure 
Is  only  pain.     Work  is  my  recreation, 
The  play  of  faculty;  a  delight  like  that 
Which  a  bird  feels  in  flying,  or  a  fish 
In  darting  through  the  water,  —  nothing  more. 
I  cannot  go.     The  Sib3-lline  leaves  of  life 
Grow  precious  now,  when  only  few  remain. 
I  cannot  go. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Berni,  perhaps,  will  read 
A  canto  of  the  Orlando  Inamorato. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

That  is  another  reason  for  not  going. 
If  aught  is  tedious  and  intolerable, 
It  is  a  poet  reading  his  own  verses. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Berni  thinks  somewhat  better  of  your  verses 
Than  you  of  his.     He  says  that  you  speak  things, 
And  other  poete  words.  "So,  pray  you,  come. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

If  it  were  now  the  Improvisatore, 
Luigia  Pulci,  whom  I  used  to  hear 
With  Benvenuto,  in  the  streets  of  Florence, 
I  might  be  tempted.     I  was  younger  tken, 
And  singing  in  the  open  air  was  pleasant. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  here,  named  Kabelais, 

Once  a  Franciscan  friar,  and  now  a  doctor, 

And  secretary  to  the  embassy: 

A  learned  man,  who  speaks  all  languages, 

And  wittiest  of  men;  who  wrote  a  book 

Of  the  Adventures  of  Gargantua. 

So  full  of  strange  conceits  one  roars  with  laughter 

At  every  page;  a  jovial  boon-companion 

And  lover  of  much  wine.     He  too  is  coming. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Then  you  will  not  want  me,  who  am  not  witty, 
And  have  no  sense  of  mirth,  and  love  not  wine. 
I  should  be  like  a  dead  man  at  your  banquet. 
Why  should  I  seek  this  Frenchman,  Kabelais? 
And  wherefore  go  to  hear  Francesco  Berni, 
When  I  have  Dante  Alighieri  here, 
The  greatest  of  all  poets  V 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  the  dullest ; 
And  only  to  be  read  in  episodes. 
His  day  is  past.     Petrarca  is  our  poet. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Petrarca  is  for  women  and  for  lovers, 

And  for  those  soft  Abati,  who  delight 

To  wander  down  long  garden  walks  in  summer, 

Tinkling  their  little  sonnets  all  day  long, 

As  lap-dogs  do  their  bells. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

I  love  Petrarca. 

How  sweetly  of  his  absent  love  he  sings, 
When  journeying  in  the  forest  of  Ardennes! 
"  I   seem   to   hear  her,    hearing   the   boughs   and 

breezes 

And  leaves  and  birds  lamenting,  and  the  waters 
Murmuring  flee  along  the  verdant  herbage." 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Enough.    It  is  all  seeming,  and  no  being. 
If  you  would  know  how  a  man  speaks  in  earnest, 
Read  here  this  passage,  where  St.  Peter  thunders 
In  Paradise  against  degenerate  Pope* 
And  the  corruptions  of  the  church,  till  all 
The  heaven  about  him  blushes  like  a  sunset- 
I  beg  you  to  take  note  of  what  he  says 
About"  the  Papal  seals,  for  that  concerns 
Your  office  and  yourself. 

FIJ.V  SEBASTIANO,  reading. 

Is  this  the  passage? 
"  Nor  I  he  made  the  figure  of  a  seal 
To  privileges  venal  and  mendacious; 
Whereat  I  often  redden  and  flash  with  tire!  "  — 
That  ia  not  poetry. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

What  is  it,  then? 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Vituperation;  gall  that  might  have  spirted 
From  Aretino's  pen. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Name  not  that  man! 

A  profligate,  whom  your  Francesco  Berni 
Describes  as  having  "one  foot  in  the  brothel 
And  the  other  in  the  hospital ;  who  lives 


318 


MICHAEL   ANGELO 


By  flattering  or  maligning,  as  best  serves 
His  purpose  at  the  time.     He  writes  to  me 
With  easy  arrogance  of  my  Last  Judgment 
In  such  familiar  tone  that  one  would  say 
The  great  event  already  had  occurred, 
And  he  was  present,  and  from  observation 
Informed  me  how  the  picture  should  be  painted. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

What  unassuming,  unobtrusive  men 
These  critics  are !     Now,  to  have  Aretino 
Aiming  his  shafts  at  you  brings  back  to  mind 
The  Gascon  archers  in  the  square  of  Milan, 
Shooting  their  arrows  at  Duke  Sforza's  statue, 
By  Leonardo,  and  the  foolish  rabble 
Of  envious  Florentines,  that  at  your  David 
Threw  stones  at  night.     But  Aretino  praised  you . 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

His  praises  were  ironical.    He  knows 
How  to  use  words  as  weapons,  and  to  wound 
While  seeming  to  defend.     But  look,  Bastiano, 
See  how  the  setting  sun  lights  up  that  picture ! 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

My  portrait  of  Vittoria  Colonna. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

It  makes  her  look  as  she  will  look  hereafter, 
When  she  becomes  a  saint ! 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

A  noble  woman  J 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  these  old  hands  can  fashion  fairer  shapes 
In  marble,  and  can  paint  diviner  pictures, 
Since  I  have  known  her. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  you  like  this  picture; 
And  yet  it  is  in  oils,  which  you  detest. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

When  that  barbarian  Jan  Van  Eyck  discovered 

The  use  of  oil  in  painting,  he  degraded 

His  art  into  a  handicraft,  and  made  it 

Sign-painting,  merely,  for  a  country  inn 

Or  wayside  wine-shop.     'T  is  an  art  for  women, 

Or  for  such  leisurely  and  idle  people 

As  you,  Fra  Bastiano.     Nature  paints  not 

In  oils,  but  frescoes  the  great  dome  of  heaven 

With  sunsets,  and  the  lovely  forms  of  clouds 

And  flying  vapors. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  how  soon  they  fade ! 
Behold  yon  line  of  roofs  and  belfries  painted 
Upon  the  golden  background  of  the  sky, 
Like  a  Byzantine  picture,  or  a  portrait 
Of  Cimabue.     See  how  hard  the  outline, 
Sharp-cut  and  clear,  not  rounded  into  shadow. 
Yet  that  is  nature. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

She  is  always  right. 

The  picture  that  approaches  sculpture  nearest 
Is  the  best  picture. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Leonardo  thinks 

The  open  air  too  bright.     We  ought  to  paint 
As  if  the  sun  were  shining  through  a  mist. 
'T  is  easier  done  in  oil  than  in  distemper. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Do  not  revive  again  the  old  dispute ; 

I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  forgetting, 


But  I  still  feel  the  hurt.     Wounds  are  not  healed 
By  the  unbending  of  the  bow  that  made  them. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO. 

So  say  Petrarca  and  the  ancient  proverb. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  that  is  best.  Now  I  am  angry  with  you, 
Not  that  you  paint  in  oils,  but  tha't,  grown  fat 
And  indolent,  you  do  not  paint;  at  all. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Why  should   I   paint?     Why   should   I   toil   and 

sweat, 

Who  now  am  rich  enough  to  live  at  ease, 
And  take  my  pleasure  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  Pope  Leo  died, 
He  who  had  been  so  lavish  of  the  wealth 
His  predecessors  left  him,  who  received 
A  basket  of  gold-pieces  every  morning, 
Which  every  night  was  empty,  left  behind 
Hardly  enough  to  pay  his  funeral. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

I  care  for  banquets,  not  for  funerals, 
As  did  his  Holiness.     I  have  forbidden 
All  tapers  at  my  burial,  and  procession 
Of  priests  and  friars  and  monks;  and  have  pro 
vided 
The  cost  thereof  be  given  to  the  poor ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

You  have  done  wisely,  but  of  that  I  speak  not. 
Ghiberti  left  behind  him  wealth  and  children; 
But  who  to-day  would  know  that  he  had  lived, 
If  he  had  never  made  those  gates  of  bronze 
In  the  old  Baptistery,  —  those  gates  of  bronze, 
Worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
His  wealth  is  scattered  to  the  winds ;  his  children 
Are  long  since  dead ;  but  those  celestial  gates 
Survive,  and  keep  his  name  and  memory  green. 

FHA   SEBASTIANO. 

But  why  should  I  fatigue  myself?     I  think 
That  all  things  it  is  possible  to  paint 
Have  been  already  painted ;  and  if  not, 
Why,  there  are  painters  in  the  world  at  present 
Who  can  accomplish  more  in  two  short  months 
Than  I  could  in  two  years ;  so  it  is  well 
That  some  one  is  contented  to  do  nothing, 
And  leave  the  field  to  others. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

O  blasphemer! 

Not  without  reason  do  the  people  call  you 
Sebastian  del  Piombo,  for  the  lead 
Of  all  the  Papal  bulls  is  heavy  upon  you, 
And  wraps  you  like  a  shroud. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Misericordia ! 

Sharp  is  the  vinegar  of  sweet  wine,  and  sharp 
The  words  you  speak,  Because  the  heart  within  you 
Is  sweet  unto  the  core. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  changed  you  are 
From  the  Sebastiano  I  once  knew, 
When  poor,  laborious,  emulous  to  excel, 
You  strove  in  rivalry  with  Badassare 
And  Raphael  Sanzio. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Raphael  is  dead ; 

He  is  but  dust  and  ashes  in  his  grave, 
While  I  am  living  and  enjoying  life, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


ANGELO.  81  i) 

Leads  me  about,  a  blind  man,  groping  darkly 
Among  the  marvels  of  the  past.     I  touch  them, 
But  do  not  see  them. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

There  are  things  in  Rome 
That  one  might  walk  bare-footed  here  from  Venice 
But  to  see  once,  and  then  to  die  content. 

TITIAN. 

I  must  confess  that  these  majestic  ruins 
Oppress  me  with  their  gloom.     I  feel  as  one 
Who  in  the  twilight  stumbles  among  tombs, 
And  cannot  read  the  inscriptions  carved  upon  them/ 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

I  felt  so  once ;  but  I  have  grown  familial 
With  desolation,  and  it  has  become 
No  more  a  pain  to  me,  but  a  delight. 


I  could  not  live  here.     I  must  have  the  sea, 
And  the  sea-mist,  with  sunshine  interwoven 
Like  cloth  of  gold  ;  must  have  beneath  my  windows 
The  laughter  of  the  waves,  and  at  my  door 
Their  pattering  footsteps,  or  I  am  not  happy. 

MICHAEL  ANGKLO. 

Then  tell  me  of  your  city  in  the  sea, 
Paved  with  red  basalt  of  the  1'aduan  hills. 
Tell  me  of  art  in  Venice.     Three  great  names, 
Giorgione,  Titian,  and  the  Tintoretto, 
Illustrate  your  Venetian  school,  and  send 
A  challenge  to  the  world.     The  first  is  dead, 
But  Tintoretto  lives. 


And  paints  with  fire, 

Sudden  and  splendid,  as  the  lightning  paints 
The  cloudy  vault  of  heaven. 

GIORGIO. 

Docs  he  still  keep 

Above  his  door  the  arrogant  inscription 
That  once  was  painted  there,  —  "  The  color  of  Ti 
tian, 
With  the  design  of  Michael  Angelo  "V 

TITIAN. 

Indeed,  I  know  not.     'T  was  a  foolish  boast, 
And  does  no  harm  to  any  but  himself. 
Perhaps  he  has  grown  wiser. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  you  two 

Are  gone,  who  is  there  that  remains  behind 
To  seize  the  pencil  falling  from  your  lingers  ? 


Oh  there  are  many  hands  upraised  already 

To  clutch  at  such  a  prize,  which  hardly  wait 

For  death    to   loose  your   grasp,  —  a  hundred  of 

them: 

Schiavone,  Bonifazio,  Campagnola, 
Moretto  and  Moroni ;  who  can  count  them, 
Or  measure  their  ambition? 


And  so  am  victor.     One  live  Pope  is  worth 
A  dozen  dead  ones. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Raphael  is  not  dead  ; 

He  doth  but  sleep ;  for  how  can  he  be  dead 
Who  lives  immortal  in  the  hearts  of  men  V 
He  only  drank  the  precious  wine  of  youth, 
The  outbreak  of  the  grapes,  before  the  vintage 
Was  trodden  to  bitterness  by  the  feet  of  men. 
The  gods  have  given  him  sleep.     We  never  were 
Nor  could  be  foes,  although  our  followers, 
Who  are  distorted  shadows  of  ourselves, 
Have  striven  to  make  us  so;  but  each  one  worked 
Unconsciously  upon  the  other's  thoughts, 
Both  giving  and  receiving.     He  perchance 
Caught  strength  from  me,   and  I   some    greater 

sweetness 

And  tenderness  from  his  more  gentle  nature. 
I  have  but  words  of  admiration 
For  his  great  genius,  and  the  world  is  fairer 
That  he  lived  in  it. 


So  come  with  me. 


FKA   SEBASTIANO. 

We  at  least  are  friends ; 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


No,  no ;  I  am  best  pleased 

When  I  'm  not  asked  to  banquets.     I  have  reached 
A  time  of  life  when  daily  walks  are  shortened, 
And  even  the  houses  of  our  dearest  friends, 
That  used  to  be  so  near,  seem  far  away. 

FKA    SEBASTIANO. 

Then  we  must  sup  without  you.     We  shall  laugh 
At  those  who  toil  for  fame,  'and  make  their  lives 
A  tedious  martyrdom,  that  they  may  live 
A  little  longer  in  the  mouths  of  men ! 
And  so,  good-night. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Good-night,  my  Fra  Bastiano. 

[fieturniny  to  his  work. 

How  will  men  speak  of  me  when  I  am  gone, 
When  all  this  colorless,  sad  life  is  ended, 
And  I  am  dust  ?    They  will  remember  only 
The  wrinkled  forehead",  the  marred  countenance, 
The  rudeness  of  my  speech,  and  my  rough  man 
ners, 

And  never  dream  that  underneath  them  all 
There  was  a  woman's  heart  of  tenderness. 
They  will  not  know  the  secret  of  my  life, 
Locked  up  in  silence,  or  but  vaguely  hinted 
In  uncouth  rhymes,  that  may  perchance  survive 
Some  little  space  in  memories  of  men ! 
Each  one  performs  his  life-work,  and  then  leaves 

it; 

Those  that  come  after  him  will  estimate 
His  influence  on  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 

V. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO   AND   TITIAN. 

Palazzo  Belvedere.  TITIAN'S  studio.  A  painting 
of  Danae  with  a  curtain  before  it.  TITIAN, 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  and  GIOKGIO  VASAKI. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

So  you  have  left  at  last  your  still  lagoons, 
Your  City  of  Silence  floating  in  the  sea, 
And  come  to  us  in  Koine. 

TITIAN. 

I  come  to  learn. 

But  I  have  come  too  late-     I  should  have  seen 
Rome  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  mind  was  open 
To  new  impressions.     Our  Vasari  here 


TITIAN. 


When  we  are  gone, 


The  generation  that  comes  after  us 
Will  have  far  other  thoughts  than  ours.     Our  rum 
Will  serve  to  build  their  palaces  or  tombs. 
Thev  will  possess  the  world  that  we  think  ours, 
And  fashion  it  far  otherwise. 

MICHAEL    ANGKLO. 

I  hear 

Your  son  Orazio  and  your  nephew  Marco 
Mentioned  with  honor. 


320 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


Ay,  brave  lads,  brave  lads. 

But  time  will  show.     There  is  a  youth  in  Venice, 
One  Paul  Cagliari,  called  the  Veronese, 
Still  a  mere  stripling,  but  of  such  rare  promise 
That  we  must  guard  our  laurels,  or  may  lose  them. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

These  are  good  tidings ;  for  I  sometimes  fear 
That,  when  we  die,  with  us  all  art  will  die. 
'T  is  but  a  fancy.     Nature  will  provide 
Others  to  take  our  places.     I  rejoice 
To  see  the  young  spring  forward  in  the  race, 
Eager  as  we  were,  and  as  full  of  hope 
And  the  sublime  audacitv  of  vouth. 


Men  die  and  are  forgotten.     The  great  world 

Goes  on  the  same.     Among  the  myriads 

Of  men  that  live,  or  have  lived,  or  shall  live, 

What  is  a  single  life,  or  thine  or  mine, 

That  we  should  think  all  nature  would  stand  still 

If  we  were  gone.     We  must  make  room  for  others. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  now.  Maestro,  pray  unveil  your  picture 
Of  Danae,  of  which  I  hear  such  praise. 

TITIAN,  drawing  back  the  curtain. 
What  think  you  ? 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

That  Acrisius  did  well 
To  lock  such  beautv  in  a  brazen  tower, 
And  hide  it  from  all  eyes. 


Was  beautiful. 


TITIAN. 

The  model  truly 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


And  more,  that  you  were  present, 
And  saw  the  showery  Jove  from  high  Olympus 
Descend  in  all  splendor. 


From  your  lips 
Such  words  are  full  of  sweetness. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

You  have  caught 
These  golden  hues  from  your  Venetian  sunsets. 


Possibly. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Or  from  sunshine  through  a  shower 
On  the  lagoons,  or  the  broad  Adriatic. 
Nature  reveals  herself  in  all  our  arts. 
The  pavements  and  the  palaces  of  cities 
Hint  at  the  nature  of  the  neighboring  hills. 
Red  lavas  from  the  Euganean  quarries 
Of  Padua  pave  your  streets ;  vour  palaces 
Are  the  white  stones  of  Istria,"  and  gleam 
Reflected  in  your  waters  and  your  pictures. 
And  thus  the  works  of  every  artist  show 
Something  of  his  surroundings  and  his  habits. 
The  uttermost  that  can  be  reached  by  color 
Is   here   accomplished.     Warmth   and    light   and 

softness 

Mingle  together.     Never  yet  was  flesh 
Painted  by  hand  of  artist,  dead  or  living, 
With  such  divine  perfection. 


I  am  grateful 
For  so  much  praise  from  you,  who  are  a  master; 


While   mostly   those   who   praise  and   those  who 

blame 

Know  nothing  of  the  matter,  so  that  mainly 
Their  censure  sounds  like  praise,  their  praise  like 

censure. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Wonderful !  wonderful !     The  charm  of  color 
Fascinates  me  the  more  that  in  myself 
The  gift  is  wanting.     I  am  not  a  painter. 

GIOKGIO. 

Messer  Michele,  all  the  arts  are  yours, 

Not  one  alone;  and  therefore  I  may  venture 

To  put  a  question  to  you. 

MICHAEL '  ANGELO. 

Well,  speak  on. 


Two  nephews  of  the  Cardinal  Farnese 
Have  made  me  umpire  in  dispute  between  them 
Which  is  the  greater  of  the  sister  arts, 
Painting  or  sculpture.     Solve  for  me  the  doubt. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Sculpture  and  painting  have  a  common  goal, 
And  whosoever  would  attain  to  it, 
Whichever  path  he  take,  will  find  that  goal 
Equally  hard  to  reach, 

GIORGIO. 

No  doubt,  no  doubt ; 
But  you  evade  the  question. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  I  stand 

In  presence  of  this  picture,  I  concede 
That  painting  has  attained  its  uttermost ; 
But  in  the  presence  of  my  sculptured  figures 
I  feel  that  my  conception  soars  beyond 
All  limit  I  have  reached. 

GIORGIO. 

You  still  evade  me. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Giorgio  Vasari,  I  have  often  said 
That  I  account  that  painting  as  the  best 
Which  most  resembles  sculpture.     Here  before  us 
We  have  the  proof.     Behold  those  rounded  limbs ! 
How  from  the  canvas  they  detach  themselves, 
Till  they  deceive  the  eye,  and  one  would  say, 
It  is  a  statue  with  a  screen  behind  it ! 


Signori,  pardon  me ;  but  all  such  questions 
Seem  to  me  idle. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Idle  as  the  wind. 

And  now,  Maestro.  I  will  say  once  more 
How  admirable  I  esteem  your  work, 
And  leave  you,  without  further  interruption. 

TITIAN. 

Your  friendly  visit  hath  much  honored  me. 

GIORGIO. 

Farewell. 

MICHAEL  ANGKLO  to  GIOKGIO,  going  Out. 

If  the  Venetian  painters  knew 
But  half  as  much  of  drawing  as  of  color, 
They  would  indeed  work  miracles  in  art, 
And  the  world  see  what  it  hath  never  seen. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


321 


VI. 
PALAZZO  CESARINI. 


VITTORIA  COLONNA,  seated  in  an  arm-chair ;  JULIA 
GONZAGA,  standing'  near  her. 


It  grieves  me  that  I  find  you  still  so  weak 
And  suffering. 

VITTOKIA. 

No,  not  suffering;  only  dying. 
Death  is  the  chillness  that  precedes  the  dawn ; 
We  shudder  for  a  moment,  then  awake 
In  the  broad  sunshine  of  the  other  life. 
I  am  a  shadow,  merely,  and  these  hands, 
These  cheeks,   these    eyes,  these  tresses  that  my 

husband 

Once  thought  so  beautiful,  and  I  was  proud  of 
Because  he  thought  them  so,  are  faded  quite,  — 
All  beauty  gone  from  them. 


Ah,  no,  not  that. 
Paler  you  are,  but  not  less  beautiful. 


Let  me  forget  it ;  for  my  memory 
Serves  me  too  often  as  an  unkind  friend, 
And  I  remember  things  *  would  forget, 
While  I  forget  the  things  I  would  remember. 

VITTORIA. 

Forgive  me;  I  will  speak  of  him  no  more. 
The  good  Fra  Bernardino  has  departed, 
Has  fled  from  Italy,  and  crossed  the  Alps, 
Fearing  Caraffa's  wrath,  because  he  taught 
That  He  who  made  us  all  without  our  help 
Could  also  save  us  without  aid  of  ours. 
Rene'e  of  France,  the  Duchess  of  Ferrara, 
That  Lily  of  the  Loire,  is  bowed  by  winds 
That  blow  from  Rome ;  Olympia  Morata 
Banished  from  court  because  of  this  new  doctrine. 
Therefore  be  cautious.     Keep  your  secret  thought 
Locked  in  your  breast. 

JULIA. 

I  will  be  very  prudent. 
But  speak  no  more,  I  pray ;  it  wearies  you. 

VITTORIA. 

Yes,  I  am  very  weary.     Read  to  me. 


VITTORIA. 

Hand  me  the  mirror.     I  would  fain  behold 
What  change  comes  o'er  our  features  when  we  die. 
Thank  you.     And  now  sit  down  beside  me  here. 
How  glad  I  am  that  you  have  come  to-day, 
Above  all  other  days,  and  at  the  hour 
When  most  I  need  you ! 

JULIA. 

Do  vou  ever  need  me  ? 


Always,  and  most  of  all  to-day  and  now. 
Do  you  remember,  Julia,  when  we  walked, 
One"  afternoon,  upon  the  castle  terrace 
At  Ischia,  on  the  day  before  you  left  me  ? 


Well  I  remember ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
Something  unreal,  that  has  never  been,  — 
Something  that  I  have  read  of  in  a  book, 
Or  heard  of  some  one  else. 

VITTORIA. 

Ten  years  and  more 
Have  passed  since  then ;  and  many  things  have 

happened 

In  those  ten  years,  and  many  friends  have  died : 
Marco  Flaminio,  whom  we  all  admired 
And  loved  as  our  Catullus ;  dear  Valdesso, 
The  noble  champion  of  free  thought  and  speech ; 
And  Cardinal  Ippolito,  your  friend. 


Oh,  do  not  speak  of  him !     His  sudden  death 
O'ercomes  me  now,  as  it  o'ercame  me  then. 
21 


JULIA. 

Most  willingly.     What  shall  I  read  ? 

VITTORIA. 

Petrarca's 

Triumph  of  Death.    The  book  lies  on  the  table; 
Beside  the  casket  there.     Read  where  you  find 
The  leaf  turned  down.     'T  was  there  I  left  off  read 
ing. 

JULIA,  reads. 

"  Not  as  a  flame  that  by  some  force  is  spent, 
But  one  that  of  itself  consumeth  quite, 
Departed  hence  in  peace  the  soul  content, 
In  fashion  of  a  soft  and  lucent  light 

Whose  nutriment  by  slow  gradation  goes, 
Keeping  until  the  end  its  lustre  bright. 
Not  pale,  but  whiter  than  the  sheet  of  snows 
That  without  wind  on  some  fair  hill-top  lies, 
Her  weary  body  seemed  to  find  repose. 
Like  a  sweet  slumber  in  her  lovely  eyes, 
When  now  the  spirit  was  no  longer  there, 
Was  what  is  dying  called  by  the  unwise. 
E'en    Death    itself    in    her    fair     face    seemed 
fair."  — 


VITTOKIA. 

Not  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  vision ! 
Pescara !  my  Pescara  I 


322 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


JULIA. 

Holy  Virgin ! 
Her  body  sinks  together,  —  she  is  dead ! 

[Kneelt,  and  hides  her  face  in  Vittoria's  lap. 

Enter  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Hush!  make  no  noise. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  is  she? 


Never  better. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Then  she  is  dead ! 


Alas!  yes,  she  is  dead! 
Even  death  itself  in  her  fair  face  seems  fair. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  wonderful !    The  light  upon  her  face 
Shines  from  the  windows  of  another  world. 
Saints  only  have  such  faces.     Holy  Angels ! 
Bear  her  like  sainted  Catherine  to  her  rest ! 

[Kisses  Vittoria's  hand. 

PART  THIRD. 
I. 

MONOLOGUE. 

Macello  de1  Corn.  A  room  in  MICHAEL  ANGE- 
LO'S  house.  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  standing  before 
a  model  of  St.  Peter's. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Better  than  thou  I  cannot,  Brunelleschi, 
And  less  than  thou  I  will  not !    If  the  thought 
Could,  like  a  windlass,  lift  the  ponderous  stones, 
And  swing  them  to  their  places ;  if  a  breath 
Could  blow  this  rounded  dome  into  the  air, 
As  if  it  were  a  bubble,  and  these  statues 
Spring  at  a  signal  to  their  sacred  stations, 
As  sentinels  mount  guard  upon  a  wall, 
Then  were  my  task  completed.     Now,  alas ! 
Naught  am  I  but  a  Saint  Sebaldus,  holding 
Upon  his  hand  the  model  of  a  church, 
As  German  artists  paint  him:  and  what  years, 
What  weary  years,  must  drag  themselves  along, 
Ere  this  be  turned  to  stone !    What  hindrances 
Must  block  the  way ;  what  idle  interferences 
Of  Cardinals  and  Canons  of  St.  Peter's, 
Who  nothing  know  of  art  beyond  the  color 
Of  cloaks  and  stockings,  nor  of  any  building 
Save  that  of  their  own  fortunes !     And  what  then? 
I  must  then  the  short-coming  of  my  means 
Piece  out  by  stepping  forward,  as  the  Spartan 
Was  told  to  add  a  step  to  his  short  sword. 


t  A  pause. 
..  t 


And  is  Fra  Bastian  dead  ?    Is  all  that  ligr. 
Gone  out,  that  sunshine  darkened  ;  all  that  music 
And  merriment,  that  used  to  make  our  lives 
Less  melancholy,  swallowed  up  in  silence 
Like  madrigals  sung  in  the  street  at  night 
By  passing  revellers  ?    It  is  strange  indeed 
That  he  should  die  before  me.     'T  is  against 
The  laws  of  nature  that  the  young  should  die, 
And  the  old  live  ;  unless  it  be  that  some 
Have  long  been  dead  who  think  themselves  alive, 
Because  not  buried.     Well,  what  matters  it, 
Since  now  that  greater  light,  that  was  my  sun,   . 
Is  set,  and  all  is  darkness,  ail  is  darkness ! 
Death's  lightnings  strike  to  right  ana  left  of  me, 
And,  like  a  ruined  wall,  the  world  around  me 
Crumbles  away,  and  I  am  left  alone. 


I  have    no   friends,    and   want    none.      My  own 

thoughts 

Are  now  my  sole  companions,  —  thoughts  of  her, 
That  like  a  benediction  from  the  skies 
Come  to  me  in  my  solitude  and  soothe  me. 
When  men  are  old,  the  incessant  thought  of  Death 
Follows  them  like  their  shadow ;  sits  with  them 
At  every  meal ;  sleeps  with  them  when  thay  sleep ; 
And  when  they  wake  already  is  awake, 
And  standing  "by  their  bedside.     Then,  what  folly 
It  is  in  us  to  make  an  enemy 
Of  this  importunate  follower,  not  a  friend ! 
To  me  a  friend,  and  not  an  enemy, 
Has  he  become  since  all  my  friends  are  dead 

II. 
VIGNA  DI  PAPA  GIULIO. 

POPE  JULIUS  III.  seated  by  the  Fountain  of  Acqua 
Vergine,  surrounded  by  Cardinals. 


Tell  me,  why  is  it  ye  are  discontent, 
You,  Cardinals  Salviati  and  Marcello, 
With  Michael  Angelo  ?    What  has  he  done, 
Or  left  undone,  that  ye  are  set  against  him  ? 
When  one  Pope  dies,  another  is  soon  made ; 
And  I  can  make  a  dozen  Cardinals, 
But  cannot  make  one  Michael  Angelo. 

CARDINAL  SALVIATI. 

Your  Holiness,  we  are  not  set  against  him; 
We  but  deplore  his  incapacity. 
He  is  too  old. 


You,  Cardinal  Salviati, 
Are  an  old  man.  Are  you  incapable  ? 
'T  is  the  old  ox  that  draws  the  straightest  furrow. 

CARDINAL   MARCELLO. 

Your  Holiness  remembers  he  was  charged 
With  the  repairs  upon  St.  Mary's  bridge; 
Made  cofferdams,  and  heaped  up  load  on  load 
Of  timber  and  travertine  ;  and  yet  for  years 
The  bridge  remained  unfinished,  till  we  gave  it 
To  Baccio  Bigio. 


Ahyays  Baccic  Bigio  ! 
Is  there  no  other  architect  on  earth  ? 
Was  it  not  he  that  sometime  had  in  charge 
The  harbor  of  Ancona  ? 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

Ay,  the  same. 


Then  let  me  tell  you  that  your  Baccio  Bigio 

Did  greater  damage  in  a  single  day 

To  that  fair  harbor  than  the  sea  had  done 

Or  would  do  in  ten  years.     And  him  you  think 

To  put  in  place  of  Michael  Angelo, 

In  building  the  Basilica  of  St.  Peter! 

The  ass  that  thinks  himself  a  stag  discovers 

His  error  when  he  comes  to  leap  the  ditch. 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

He  does  not  build ;  he  but  demolishes 
The  labors  of  Bramante  and  San  (.Julio. 

JULIUS. 
Only  to  build  more  grandly. 

CARDINAL   MARCELLO. 

But  time  passes  : 
Year  after  year  goes  by,  and  yet  the  work 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


323 


Is  not  completed.  Michael  Angelo 
Is  a  great  sculptor,  but  no  architect. 
His  plans  are  faulty. 


I  have  seen  his  model, 

And  have  approved  it.     But  here  comes  the  artist. 
Beware  of  him.     He  may  make  Persians  of  you, 
To  carry  burdens  on  your  backs  forever. 

The  same  :  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
JULIUS. 

Come  forward,  dear  Maestro !     In  these  gardens 
All  ceremonies  of  our  court  are  banished. 
Sit  down  beside  me  here. 

MICHAKL  ANGELO,    sitting  down. 

How  graciously 

Your  Holiness  commiserates  old  age 
And  its  infirmities ! 

JULIUS. 

Say  its  privileges. 

Art  I  respect.     The  building  of  this  palace 
And  laying  out  these  pleasant  garden  walks 
Are  my  delight,  and  if  I  have  not  asked 
Your  aid  in  this,  it  is  that  I  forbear 
To  lay  new  burdens  on  you  at  an  age 
When  you  need  rest.     Here  I  escape  from  Rome 
To  be  at  peace.     The  tumult  of  the  city 
Scarce  reaches  here. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

How  beautiful  it  is, 
And  quiet  almost  as  a  hermitage ! 


We  live  as  hermits  here ;  and  from  these  heights 
O'erlook  all  Rome  and  see  the  yellow  Tiber 
Cleaving  in  twain  the  city,  like  a  sword, 
As  far  below  there  as  St.  Mary's  bridge. 
What  think  you  of  that  bridge '? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  would  advise 

Your  Holiness  not  to  cross  it,  or  not  often ; 
It  is  not  safe. 

JULIUS. 
It  was  repaired  of  late. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Some  morning  you  will  look  for  it  in  vain ; 
It  will  be  gone."   The  current  of  the  river 
Is  undermining  it. 

JULIUS. 
But  you  repaired  it. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

I  strengthened  all  its  piers,  and  paved  its  road 
With  travertine.     He  who  came  after  me 
Removed  the  stone,  and  sold  it,  and  tilled  in 
The  space  with  gravel. 

JULIUS. 

Cardinal  Salviati 

And  Cardinal  Marcello,  do  you  listen  ? 
This  is  your  famous  Xanni  Baccio  Bigio. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  aside. 

There  is  some  mystery  here.     These  Cardinals 
Stand  lowering  at  me  with  unfriendly  eyes. 

JULIUS. 

Now  let  us  come  to  what  concerns  us  more 

Than  bridge  or  gardens.  Some  complaints  are  made 


Concerning  the  Three  Chapels  in  St.  Peter's; 
Certain  supposed  defects  or  imperfections, 
You  doubtless  can  explain. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

This  is  no  longer 

The  golden  age  of  art.     Men  have  become 
Iconoclasts  and  critics.     They  delight  not 
In  what  an  artist  does,  but  set  themselves 
To  censure  what  they  do  not  comprehend. 
You  will  not  see  them  bearing  a  Madonna 
Of  Cimabue  to  the  church  in  triumph, 
But  tearing  down  the  statue  of  a  Pope 
To  cast  it  into  cannon.     Who  are  they 
That  bring  complaints  against  me  V 

JULIUS. 

Deputies 

Of  the  commissioners ;  and  they  complain 
Of  insufficient  light  in  the  Three  Chapels. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Your  Holiness,  the  insufficient  light 

Is  somewhere  else,  and  not  in  the  Three  Chapels. 

Who  are  the  deputies  that  make  complaint? 

JULIUS. 

The  Cardinals  Salviati  and  Marcello, 
Here  present.    ' 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  rising. 

With  permission,  Monsignori, 
What  is  it  ye  complain  of  V 

CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

We  regret 

You  have  departed  from  Bramante's  plan, 
And  from  San  Gallo's. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Since  the  ancient  time 
Xo  greater  architect  has  lived  on  earth 
Than  Lazzari  Bramante.     His  design, 
Without  confusion,  simple,  clear,  well-lighted, 
Merits  all  praise,  and  to  depart  from  it 
Would  be  departing  from  the  truth.     San  Gallo, 
Building  about  with  columns,  took  all  light 
Out  of  this  plan ;  left  in  the  choir  dark  corners 
For  infinite  ribaldries,  and  lurking  places 
For  rogues  and  robbers :  so  that  when  the  church 
Was  shut  at  night,  not  five  and  twenty  men 
Could  find  them  out.     It  was  San  Gallo,  then, 
That  left  the  church  in  darkness,  and  not  I. 

CARDINAL   MARCELLO. 

Excuse  me;  but  in  each  of  the  Three  Chapels 
Is  but  a  single  window. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Monsignore, 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  in  the  vaulting 
Above  there  are  to  go  three  other  windows. 

.  CARDINAL    SALVIATI. 

How  should  we  know  V     You  never  told  us  of  it 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  neither  am  obliged,  nor  will  I  be, 
To  tell  your  Eminence  or  any  other 
What  I  intend  or  ought  to  do.     Your  office 
Is  to  provide  the  means,  and  see  that  thieves 
Do  not  lay  hands  upon  them.     The  designs 
Must  all  be  left  to  me. 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

Sir  architect, 

You  do  forget  yourself,  to  speak  thus  rudely 
In  presence  of  his  Holiness,  and  to  us 
Who  are  his  cardinals. 


324 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO,  putting  OH  his  hat. 

I  do  not  forget 

I  am  descended  from  the  Counts  Canossa, 
Linked  with  the  Imperial  line,  and  with  Matilda, 
Who  gave  the  Church  Saint  Peter's  Patrimony. 
I,  too,  am  proud  to  give  unto  the  Church 
The  labor  of  these  hands,  and  what  of  life 
Remains  to  me.     My  father  Buonarotti 
Was  Podesta  of  Chiusi  and  Caprese. 
I  am  not  used  to  have  men  speak  to  me 
As  if  I  were  a  mason,  hired  to  build 
A  garden  wall,  and  paid  on  Saturdays 
So  much  an  hour. 

CARDINAL   SALVIATI,    aside. 

No  wonder  that  Pope  Clement 
Never  sat  down  in  presence  of  this  man 
Lest  he  should  do  the  same ;  and  always  bade  him 
Put  on  his  hat,  lest  he  unasked  should  do  it ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

If  any  one  could  die  of  grief  and  shame, 
I  should.     This  labor  was  imposed  upon  me ; 
I  did  not  seek  it ;  and  if  I  assumed  it, 
'T  was  not  for  love  of  fame  or  love  of  gain, 
But  for  the  love  of  God.     Perhaps  old  age 
Deceived  me,  or  self-interest,  or  ambition  ; 
I  may  be  doing  harm  instead  of  good. 
Therefore,  I  pray  your  Holiness,  release  me; 
Take  off  from  me  the  burden  of  this  work; 
Let  me  go  back  to  Florence. 


While  I  am  living. 


Never,  never, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Doth  your  Holiness 

Remember  what  the  Holy  Scriptures  say 
Of  the  inevitable  time,  when  those 
Who  look  out  of  the  windows  shall  be  darkened, 
And  the  almond-tree  shall  flourish  V 


Ecclesiastes. 


That  is  in 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


And  the  grasshopper 
Shall  be  a  burden,  and  desire  shall  fail, 
Because  man  goeth  unto  his  long  home. 
Vanity  of  vanities,  saith  the  Preacher;  all 
Is  vanity. 

JULIUS. 

Ah,  were  to  do  a  thing 
As  easy  as  to  dream  of  doing  it, 
We  should  not  want  for  artists.     But  the  men 
Who  carry  out  in  act  their  great  designs 
Are  few  in  number ;  ay,  they  may  be  counted 
Upon  the  fingers  of  this  hand.     Your  place 
Is  at  St.  Peter's. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  have  had  my  dream, 
And  cannot  carry  out  my  great  "conception, 
And  put  it  into  act. 

JULIUS. 

Then  who  can  do  it? 

You  would  but  leave  it  to  some  Baccio  Bigio 
To  mangle  and  deface. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rather  than  that, 

I  will  still  bear  the  burden  on  my  shoulders 
A  little  longer.     If  your  Holiness 
Will  keep  the  world  in  order,  and  will  leave 
The  building  of  the  church  to  me,  the  work 


Will  go  on  better  for  it.     Holy  Father, 
If  all  the  labors  that  I  have  endured, 
And  shall  endure,  advantage  not  my  soul, 
I  am  but  losing  time. 

JULIUS,    laying  his  hands  on  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S 
shoulders. 

You  will  be  gainer 
Both  for  your  soul  and  body. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Not  events 

Exasperate  me,  but  the  funest  conclusions 
I  draw  from  these  events;  the  sure  decline 
Of  art,  arid  all  the  meaning  of  that  word; 
All  that  embellishes  and  sweetens  life, 
And  lifts  it  from  the  level  of  low  cares 
Into  the  purer  atmosphere  of  beauty; 
The  faith  in  the  Ideal ;  the  inspiration 
That  made  the  canons  of  the  church  of  Seville 
Say,  "  Let  us  build,  so  that  all  men  hereafter 
Will  say  that  we  were  madmen."     Holy  Father, 
I  beg  permission  to  retire  from  here. 


Go;  and  my  benediction  be  upon  vou. 

[Michael  Angela  goes  out. 
My  Cardinals,  this  Michael  Angelo 
Must  not  be  dealt  with  as  a  common  mason. 
He  comes  of  noble  blood,  and  for  his  crest 
Bears  two  bull's  horns;  and  he  has  given  us  proof 
That  he  can  toss  with  them.     From  this  day  forth 
Unto  the  end  of  time,  let  no  man  utter 
The  name  of  Baccio  Bigio  in  my  presence. 
All  great  achievements  are  the  natural  fruits 
Of  a  great  character.     As  trees  bear  not 
Their  fruits  of  the  same  size  and  quality, 
But  each  one  in  its  kind  with  equal  ease, 
So  are  great  deeds  as  natural  to  great  men 
As  mean  things  are  to  small  ones.     By  his  work 
We  know  the  master.    Let  us  not  perplex  him. 

III. 
BINDO  ALTOV1TI. 

A  street  in  Rome.  BINDO  ALTOVITI,  standing  at 
the  door  of  his  house.  MICHAEL  ANGELO,  pass 
ing. 

BINDO. 

Good-morning,  Messer  Michael  Angelo ! 

MICHAEL  A-NGELO. 

Good-morning,  Messer  Bindo  Altoviti ! 

BINDO. 
What  brings  you  forth  so  early  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  same  reason 

That  keeps  you  standing  sentinel  at  your  door,  — 
The  air  of  this  delicious  summer  morning. 
What  news  have  you  from  Florence  ? 

BINDO. 

Nothing  new  • 

The  same  old  tale  of  violence  and  wrong. 
Since  the  disastrous  day  at  Monte  Murlo, 
When  in  procession,  through  San  Gallo's  gate. 
Bareheaded,  clothed  in  rags,  on  sorry  steeds, 
Philippe  Strozzi  and  the  good  Valori 
Were  led  as  prisoners  down  the  streets  of  Florence, 
Amid  the  shouts  of  an  ungrateful  people, 
Hope  is  no  more,  and  liberty  no  more. 
Duke  Cosimo,  the  tyrant,  reigns  supreme. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Florence  is  dead :  her  houses  are  but  tombs ; 
Silence  and  solitude  are  in  her  streets. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


325 


BINDO. 

Ah  yes  ;  and  often  I  repeat  the  words 

You  wrote  upon  your  statue  of  the  Night, 

There  in  the  Sacristy  of  San  Lorenzo : 

"  Grateful  to  me  is  sleep ;  to  be  of  stone 

More  grateful,  while  the  wrong  and  shame  endure 

To  see  not,  feel  not,  is  a  benediction; 

Therefore  awake  me  not;  oh,  speak  in  whispers." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  Messer  Bindo,  the  calamities, 

The  fallen  fortunes,  and  the  desolation 

Of  Florence  are  to  me  a  tragedy 

Deeper  than  words,  and  darker  than  despair. 

I,  who  have  worshipped  freedom  from  my  cradle, 

Have  loved  her  with  the  passion  of  a  lover, 

And  clothed  her  with  all  lovely  attributes 

That  the  imagination  can  conceive, 

Or  the  heart  conjure  up,  now  see  her  dead, 

And  trodden  in  the  dust  beneath  the  feet 

Of  an  adventurer  !     It  is  a  grief 

Too  great  for  me  to  bear  in  my  old  age. 


I  say  no  news  from  Florence :  I  am  wrong, 
For  Benvenuto  writes  that  he  is  coming 
To  be  my  guest  in  Rome. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Those  are  good  tidings. 
He  hath  been  many  years  away  from  us. 


Pray  you,  come  in. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  have  not  time  to  stay, 
And  yet  I  will.     I  see  from  here  your  house 
Is  filled  with  works  of  art.     That* bust  in  bronze 
Is  of  yourself.     Tell  me,  who  is  the  master 
That  works  in  such  an  admirable  way, 
And  with  such  power  and  feeling? 


Benvenuto. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Ah?    Benvenuto?     'T  is  a  masterpiece! 

It  pleases  me  as  much,  and  even  more, 

Than  the  antiques  about  it;  and  yet  they 

Are  of  the  best  one  sees.     But  you  have'placed  it 

By  far  too  high.     The  light  comes  from  below, 

And  injures  the  expression.     Were  these  windows 

Above  and  not  beneath  it,  then  indeed 

It  would  maintain  its  own  among  these  works 

Of  the  old  masters,  noble  as  they  are. 

I  will  go  in  and  study  it  more  closely. 

I  always  prophesied  that  Benvenuto, 

With  all  his  follies  and  fantastic  ways, 

Would  show  his  genius  in  some  work  of  art 

That  would  amaze  the  world,  and  be  a  challenge 

Unto  all  other  artists  of  his  time.  [They  go  in. 

IV. 

IN  THE  COLISEUM. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  and  TOMASO  DE'  CAVALIERI. 

CAVALIERI. 
What  have  you  here  alone,  Messer  Michele  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  come  to  learn. 

CAVALIERI. 

You  are  already 
And  teach  all  other  men. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Nay  I  know  nothing; 
.Not  even  my  own  ignorance,  as  some 
Philosopher  hath  said.     I  am  a  schoolboy 
Who  hath  not  learned  his  lesson,  and  who  stands 
Ashamed  and  silent  in  the  awful  presence 
Of  the  great  master  of  antiquitv 
Who  built  these  walls  Cyclopean. 

CAVALIERI. 

Gaudentius 

His  name  was,  I  remember.  His  reward 
Was  to  be  thrown  alive  to  the  wild  beasts 
Here  where  we  are  now  standing. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Idle  tales. 

CAVALIERI. 

But  you  are  greater  than  Gaudentius  was, 
And  your  work  nobler. 

MICHAEL   AXGELO. 

Silence,  I  beseech  you. 

CAVALIERI. 

Tradition  says  that  fifteen  thousand  men 
Were  toiling  for  ten  years  incessantly 
Upon  this  amphitheatre. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Behold 

How  wonderful  it  is !     The  queen  of  flowers, 
The  marble  rose  of  Koine !     Its  petals  torn 
By  wind  and  rain  of  thrice  rive  hundred  years; 
Its  mossy  sheath  half  rent  awav,  arid  sold 
To  ornament  our  palaces  and  churches, 
Or  to  be  trodden  under  feet  of  man 
Upon  the  Tiber's  bank  ;    yet  what  remains 
Still  opening  its  fair  bosom  to  the  sun, 
And  to  the  constellations  that  at  night 
Hang  poised  above  it  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 

CAVALIERI. 

The  rose  of  Rome,  but  not  of  Paradise; 
Not  the  white  rose  our  Tuscan  poet  saw. 
With  saints  for  petals.     When  this  rose  was  per 
fect 

Its  hundred  thousand  petals  were  not  saints, 
But  senators  in  their  Ihessalian  caps, 
And  all  the  roaring  populace  of  Rome; 
And  even  an  Empress  and  the  Vestal  Virgins, 
Who  came  to  see  the  gladiators  die, 
Could  not  give  sweetness  to  a  rose  like  this. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  spake  not  of  its  uses,  but  its  beauty. 

CAVALIERI. 

The  sand  beneath  our  feet  is  saturate 
With  blood  of  martyrs;  and  these  rifted  stones 
Are  awful  witnesses  against  a  people 
Whose  pleasure  was  the  pain  of  dying  men. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Tomaso  Cavalieri,  on  my  word, 

You  should  have  been  a  preacher,  not  a  painter! 

Think  you  that  I  approve  such  cruelties, 

Because  I  marvel  at  the  architects 

Who   built  these  walls,  and   curved    these    noble 

arches? 

Oh,  I  am  put  to  shame,  when  I  consider 
How  mean  our  work  is,  when  compared  with  theirs ! 
Look  at  these  walls  about  us  and  above  us! 
They  have  beer  shaken  by  earthquakes,  have  been 

made 

A  fortress,  and  been  battered  by  long  sieges ; 
The  iron  clamps,  that  held  the  stones  together, 


326 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


Have  been  wrenched  from  them;  but  they  stand 

erect 

And  firm,  as  if  they  had  been  hewn  and  hollowed 
Out  of  the  solid  rock,  and  were  a  part 
Of  the  foundations  of  the  world  itself. 

CAVALIEKI. 

Your  work,  I  say  again,  is  nobler  work, 
In  so  far  as  its  e'nd  and  aim  are  nobler  ; 
And  this  is  but  a  ruin,  like  the  rest. 
Its  vaulted  passages  are  made  the  caverns 
Of  robbers,  and  are  haunted  by  the  ghosts 
Of  murdered  men. 

MICHAEL   ANGEIX). 

A  thousand  wild  flowers  bloom 
From  every  chink,  and  the  birds  build  their  nests 
Among  the  ruined  arches,  and  suggest 
New  thoughts  of  beauty  to  the  architect. 
New  let  us  climb  the  broken  stairs  that  lead 
Into  the  corridors  above,  and  study 
The  marvel  and  the  mystery  of  that  art 
In  which  I  am  a  pupil,  not  a  master. 
All  things  must  have  an  end  ;  the  world  itself 
Must  have  an  end,  as  in  a  dream  I  saw  it 
There  came  a  great  hand  out  of  heaven,  and  touched 
The  earth,  and  stopped  it  in  its  course.    The  seas 
Leaped,  a  vast  cataract,  into  the  abyss ; 
The  forests  and  the  fields  slid  off,  and  floated 
Like  wooded  islands  in  the  air.     The  dead 
Were  hurled  forth  from  their  sepulchres;  the  living 
Were  mingled  with  them,   and  themselves  were 

dead,  — 

All  being  dead;  and  the  fair,  shining  cities 
Dropped  out  like  jewels  from  a  broken1  crown 
Naught  but  the  core  of  the  great  globe  remained, 
A  skeleton  of  stone.     And  over  it 
The  wrack  of  matter  drifted  like  a  cloud, 
And  then  recoiled  upon  itself,  and  fell 
Back  on  the  empty  world,  that  with  the  weight 
Reeled,   staggered,   righted,   and    then    headlong 

plunged 

Into  the  darkness,  as  a  ship,  when  struck 
By  a  great  sea,  throws  off  the  waves  at  first 
On  either  side,  then  settles  and  goes  down 
Into  the  dark  abyss,  with  her  dead  crew. 

CAVALIERI. 

But  the  earth  does  not  move. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Who  knows?  who  knows? 

There  are  great  truths  that  pitch  their  shining  tents 
Outside  our  walls,  and  though  but  dimly  seen 
In  the  gray  dawn,  they  will  be  manifest 
When  the  light  widens  into  perfect  day. 
A  certain  man,  Copernicus  by  name, 
Sometime  professor  here  in  Rome,  has  whispered 
It  is  the  earth,  and  not  the  sun,  that  moves. 
What  I  beheld  was  only  in  a  dream, 
Yet  dreams  sometimes  anticipate  events, 
Being  unsubstantial  images  of  things 
As  yet  unseen. 

V. 

BENVENUTO   AGAIN. 

Macello  de?   Corvi.     MICHAEL  ANGELO,  BENVE- 
NUTO  CELLINI. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

So,  Benvenuto,  vou  return  once  more 

To  the  Eternal  City.     'T  is  the  centre 

To  which  all  gravitates.     One  finds  no  rest 

Elsewhere  than  here.     There  may  be  other  cities 

That  please  us  for  a  while,  but  Rome  alone 

Completely  satisfies.     It  becomes  to  all 

A  second  native  land  by  predilection, 

And  not  by  accident  of  birth  alone. 


BENVENUTO. 


I  am  but  just  arrived,  and  am  now  lodging 
With  Bindo  Altoviti.     I  have  been 
To  kiss  the  feet  of  our  most  Holy  Father, 
And  now  am  come  in  haste  to  kiss  the  hands 
Of  my  miraculous  Master. 


Grown  very  old. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  to  find  him 


Never  grow  old. 


BENVENUTO. 

You  know  that  precious  stones 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


Half  sunk  beneath  the  horizon, 

And  yet  not  gone.     Twelve  years  are  a  long  while. 

Tell  me  of  France. 

BENVENUTO. 

It  were  too  long  a  tale 
To  tell  you  all.    Suffice  in  brief  to  say 
The  King  received  me  well,  and  loved  me  well ; 
Gave  me  the  annual  pension  that  before  me 
Our  Leonardo  had,  nor  more  nor  less, 
And  for  my  residence  the  Tour  de  Nesle, 
Upon  the  river-side. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  princely  lodging. 

BENVENUTO. 

What  in  return  I  did  now  matters  not, 

For  there  are  other  things,  of  greater  moment, 

I  wish  to  speak  of.     First  of  all,  the  letter 

You  wrote  me,  not  long  since,  about  my  bust 

Of  Bindo  Altoviti,  here  in  Rome.     You  said, 

"  My  Benvenuto,  I  for  many  years 

Have  known  you  as  the  greatest  of  all  goldsmiths, 

And  now  I  know  you  as  no  less  a  sculptor." 

Ah,    generous   Master!     How   shall   I   e'er  thank 

you 
For  such  kind  language  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

By  believing  it. 

I  saw  the  bust  at  Messer  Bindo' s  house, 
And  thought  it  worthy  of  the  ancient  masters, 
And  said  so.     That  is  all. 

BENVENUTO. 

It  is  too  much ; 

And  I  should  stand  abashed  here  in  your  presence, 
Had  I  done  nothing  worthier  of  your  praise 
Than  Bindo's  bust. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  have  you  done  that 's  better? 

BENVENUTO. 

When  I  left  Rome  for  Paris,  you  remember 
I  promised  you  that  if  I  went  a  goldsmith 
I  would  return  a  sculptor.     I  have  kept 
The  promise  I  then  made. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Dear  Benvenuto 

I  recognized  the  latent  genius  in  you, 
But  feared  your  vices. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  have  turned  them  all 

To  virtues.     My  impatient,  wayward  nature. 
That  made  me  quick  in  quarrel,  now  has  served 
me 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


327 


Where  meekness   could   not,  and  where   patience 

could  not, 

As  you  shall  hear  now.     I  have  cast  in  bronze 
A  statue  of  Perseus,  holding  thus  aloft 
In  his  left  hand  the  head  of  the  Medusa, 
And  in  his  right  the  sword  that  severed  it ; 
His  right  foot  planted  on  the  lifeless  corse ; 
His  face  superb  and  pitiful,  with  eyes 
Down-looking  on  the  victim  of  his  vengeance. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  see  it  as  it  should  be. 

BENVENUTO. 

As  it  will  be 

When  it  is  placed  upon  the  Ducal  Square, 
Half-wav  between  your  David  and  the  Judith 
Of  Donatello. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rival  of  them  both  ! 

BENVENUTO. 

But  ah,  what  infinite  trouble  have  I  had 
With  Bandinello,  and  that  stupid  beast, 
The  major-domo  of  Duke  Cosimo, 
Francesco  Ricci,  and  their  wretched  agent 
Gorini,  who  came  crawling  round  about  me 
Like  a  black  spider,  with  his  whining  voice 
That  sounded  like  the  buzz  of  a  mosquito ! 
Oh,  1  have  wept  in  utter  desperation, 
And  wished  a  thousand  times  I  had  not  left 
My  Tour  de  Nesle,  nor  e'er  returned  to  Florence, 
Or  thought   of  Perseus.     What  malignant  false 
hoods 

They  told  the  Grand  Duke,  to  impede  my  work, 
And  make  me  desperate ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  nimble  lie 

Is  like  the  second-hand  upon  a  clock ; 
We  see  it  fly ;  while  the  hour-hand  of  truth 
Seems  to  stand  still,  and  yet  it  moves  unseen, 
And  wins  at  last,  for  the  clock  will  not  strike 
Till  it  has  reached  the  goal. 

BENVENUTO. 

My  obstinacy 

Stood  me  in  stead,  and  helped  me  to  o'ercome 
The  hindrances  that  envy  and  ill-will 
Put  in  my  way. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  anything  is  done, 
People  see  not  the  patient  doing  of  it, 
Nor  think  how  great  would  be  the  loss  to  man 
If  it  had  not  been  done.     As  in  a  building 
Stone  rests  on  stone,  and  wanting  the  foundation 
All  would  be  wanting,  so  in  human  life 
Each  action  rests  on  the  foregone  event 
That  made  it  possible,  but  is  forgotten 
And  buried  in  the  earth. 

BENVENUTO. 

Even  Bandinello, 

Who  never  yet  spake  well  of  anything, 
Speaks  well  of  this ;  and  yet  he  told  the  Duke 
That,  though  I  cast  smairiigures  well  enough, 
I  never  could  cast  this. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  you  have  done  it, 

And  proved  Ser  Bandinello  a  false  prophet. 
That  is  the  wisest  way. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  ah,  that  casting ! 
What  a  wild  scene  it  was,  as  late  at  night, 


A  night  of  wind  and  rain,  we  heaped  the  furnace 

With  pine  of  Serristori,  till  the  flames 

Caught  in  the  rafters  over  us,  and  threatened 

To  send  the  burning  roof  upon  our  heads; 

And  from  the  garden  side  the  wind  and  rain 

Poured  in  upon  us,  and  half  quenched  our  fires. 

I  was  beside  myself  with  desperation. 

A  shudder  came  upon  me,  then  a  fever ; 

I  thought  that  I  was  dying,  and  was  forced 

To  leave  the  work-shop,  and  to  throw  myself 

Upon  mv  bed,  as  one  who  has  no  hope. 

And  as  I  lay  there,  a  deformed  old  man 

Appeared  before  me,  and  with  dismal  voice, 

Like  one  who  doth  exhort  a  criminal 

Led  forth  to  death,  exclaimed,  "  Poor  Benvenuto, 

Thy  work  is  spoiled  !     There  is  no  remedy !  " 

Then,  with  a  cry  so  loud  it  might  have  reached 

The  heaven  of  lire,  I  bounded  to  my  feet, 

And  rushed  back  to  my  workmen.     They  all  stood 

Bewildered  and  desponding;  and  I  looked 

Into  the  furnace,  and  beheld  the  mass 

Half  molten  only,  and  in  my  despair 

I  fed  the  fire  with  oak,  whose  terrible  heat 

Soon  made  the  sluggish  metal  shine  and  sparkle. 

Then  followed  a  bright  flash,  and  an  explosion, 

As  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  among  us. 

The  covering  of  the  furnace  had  been  rent 

Asunder,  and  the  bronze  was  flowing  over; 

So  that  I  straightwav  opened  all  the  sluices 

To  fill  the  mould.     The  metal  ran  like  lava, 

Sluggish  and  heavy;  and  I  sent  my  workmen 

To  ransack  the  whole  house,  and  bring  together 

My  pewter  plates  and  pans,  two  hundred  of  them, 

And  cast  them  one  by  one  into  the  furnace 

To  liquefy  the  mass,  and  in  a  moment 

The  mould  was  rilled!     I  fell  upon  my  knees 

And  thanked  the  Lord;  and  then  we  ate  and  drank 

And  went  to  bed,  all  hearty  and  contented. 

It  was  two  hours  before  the  break  of  day. 

My  fever  was  quite  gone. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  strange  adventure, 

That  could  have  happened  to  no  man  alive 
But  you,  my  Benvenuto. 

BENVENUTO. 

As  my  workmen  said 
To  major-domo  Ricci  afterward, 
When  he  inquired  of  them :   "  'T  was  not  a  man, 
But  an  express  great  devil." 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  the  statue? 

BENVENUTO. 

Perfect  in  every  part,  save  the  right  foot 

Of  Perseus,  as  I  had  foretold  the  Duke. 

There  was  just  bronze  enough  to  fill  the  mould; 

Not  a  drop  over,  not  a  drop  too  little. 

I  looked  upon  it  as  a  miracle 

Wrought  by  the  hand  of  God. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  now  I  see 
How  vou  have  turned  your  vices  into  virtues. 

BENVKNUTO. 

But  wherefore  do  I  prate  of  this  ?    I  came 
To  speak  of  other  things.     Duke  Cosimo 
Through  me  invites  you  to  return  to  Florence, 
And  offers  you  great  honors,  even  to  make  you 
One  of  the  Forty-Eight,  his  Senators. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

His  Senators!     That  is  enough.     Since  Florence 
Was  changed  by  Clement  Seventh  from  a  Republic 
Into  a  Dukedom,  I  no  longer  wish 


328 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


To  be  a  Florentine.    That  dream  is  ended. 
The  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  now  reigns  supreme; 
All  liberty  is  dead.     Ah,  woe  is  me ! 
I  hoped  to  see  my  country  rise  to  heights 
Of  happiness  and  freedom  yet  unreached 
By  other  nations,  but  the  climbing  wave 
Pauses,  lets  go  its  hold,  and  slides  again 
Back  to  the  common  level,  with  a  hoarse 
Death-rattle  in  its  throat.     I  am  too  old 
To  hope  for  better  days.     I  will  stay  here 
And  die  in  Rome.     The  very  weeds,  that  grow 
Among  the  broken  fragments  of  her  ruins, 
Are  sweeter  to  me  than  the  garden  flowers 
Of  other  cities ;  and  the  desolate  ring 
Of  the  Campagna  round  about  her  walls 
Fairer  than  all  the  villas  that  encircle 
The  towns  of  Tuscany. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  jrour  old  friends ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

All  dead  by  violence.     Baccio  Valori 
Has  been  beheaded;  Guicciardini  poisoned; 
Philippo  Strozzi  strangled  in  his  prison. 
Is  Florence  then  a  place  for  honest  men 
To  flourish  in  ?    What  is  there  to  prevent 
My  sharing  the  same  fate  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

Why,  this :  if  all 
Your  friends  are  dead,  so  are  your  enemies. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Is  Aretino  dead  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

/,  He  lives  in  Venice, 

And  not  in  Florence. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

'T  is  the  same  to  me. ' 

This  wretched  mountebank,  whom  flatterers 
Call  the  Divine,  as  if  to  make  the  word 
Unpleasant  in  the  mouths  of  those  who  speak  it 
And  in  the  ears  of  those  who  hear  it,  sends  me 
A  letter  written  for  the  public  eye, 
And  with  such  subtle  and  infernal  malice, 
I  wonder  at  his  wickedness.     'T  is  he 
Is  the  express  great  devil,  and  not  you. 
Some  years  ago  he  told  me  how  to  paint 
The  scenes  of  the  Last  Judgment. 


BENVENUTO. 


I  remember. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Well,  now  he  writes  to  me  that,  as  a  Christian, 
He  is  ashamed  of  the  unbounded  freedom 
With  which  I  represent  it. 

BENVENUTO. 

Hypocrite ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

'He  says  I  show  mankind  that  I  am  wanting 
In  piety  and  religion,  in  proportion 
As  I  profess  perfection  in  my  art. 
Profess  perfection  ?     Why,  't  is  only  men 
Like  Bugiardini  who  are  satisfied 
With  what  they  do.     I  never  am  content, 
But  always  see  the  labors  of  my  hand 
Fall  short  of  my  conception. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  perceive 
The  malice  of  this  creature.    He  would  taint  you 


With  heresy,  and  in  a  time  like  this ! 
'  T  is  infamous  !  - 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  represent  the  angels 

Without  their  heavenly  glory,  and  the  saints 
Without  a  trace  of  earthly  modesty. 

BENVENUTO. 

Incredible  audacity ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

The  heathen 

Veiled  their  Diana  with  some  drapery, 
And  when  they  represented  Venus  naked 
They  made  her  by  her  modest  attitude, 
Appear  half  clottied.     But  I,  who  am  a  Christian, 
Do  so  subordinate  belief  to  art 
That  I  have  made  the  very  violation 
Of  modesty  in  martyrs  and  in  virgins 
A  spectacle  at  which  all  men  would  gaze 
With  half-averted  eyes  even  in  a  brothel. 

BENVENUTO. 

He  is  at  home  there,  and  he  ought  to  know 
What  men  avert  their  eyes  from  in  such  places; 
From  the  Last  Judgment  chiefly,  I  imagine. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  divine  Providence  will  never  leave 

The  boldness  of  my  marvellous  work  unpunished; 

And  the  more  marvellous  it  is,  the  more 

'T  is  sure  to  prove  the  ruin  of  my  fame ! 

And  finally,  if  in  this  composition 

I  had  pursued  the  instructions  that  he  gave  me 

Concerning  heaven  and  hell  and  paradise, 

In  that  same  letter,  known  to  all  the  world, 

Nature  would  not  be  forced,  as  she  is  now, 

To  feel  ashamed  that  she  invested  me 

With  such  great  talent ;  that  I  stand  myself 

A  very  idol  in  the  world  of  art. 

He  taunts  me  also  with  the  Mausoleum 

Of  Julius,  still  unfinished,  for  the  reason 

That  men  persuaded  the  inane  old  man 

It  was  of  evil  augury  to  build 

His  tomb  while  he  was  living;  and  he  speaks 

Of  heaps  of  gold  this  Pope  bequeathed  to  me, 

And  calls  it  robbery ;  —  that  is  what  he  says. 

What  prompted  such  a  letter? 

BENVENUTO. 

Vanity. 

He  is  a  clever  writer,  and  he  likes 
To  draw  his  pen.  and  flourish  it  in  the  face 
Of  ever}'  honest  man,  as  swordsmen  do 
Their  rapiers  on  occasion,  but  to  show 
How  skilfully  they  do  it.     Had  you  followed 
The  advice  he  gave,  or  even  thanked  him  for  it, 
You  would  have  seen  another  style  of  fence. 
'T  is  but  his  wounded  vanity,  and  the  wish 
To  see  his  name  in  print.     So  give  it  not 
A  moment's  thought ;  it  soon  will  be  forgotten. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  will  not  think  of  it,  but  let  it  pass 

For  a  rude  speech  thrown  at  me  in  the  street, 

As  boys  threw  stones  at  Dante. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  what  answer 

Shall  I  take  back  to  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  ? 
He  does  not  ask  your  labor  or  your  service ; 
Only  your  presence  in  the  city  of  Florence, 
With  such  advice  upon  his  work  in  hand 
As  he  may  ask,  and  you  may  choose  to  give. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

You  have  my  answer.     Nothing  he  can  offer 
Shall  tempt  me  to  leave  Rome.     My  work  is  here, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


329 


And  only  here,  the  building  of  St.  Peter's. 
What  other  things  I  hitherto  have  done 
Have  fallen  from  me,  are  no  longer  mine; 
I  have  passed  on  beyond  them,  and  have  left  them 
As  milestones  on  the  way.     What  lies  before  me, 
That  is  still  mine,  and  while  it  is  unfinished 
No  one  shall  draw  me  from  it,  or  persuade  me, 
By  promises  of  ease,  or  wealth,  or  honor, 
Till  1  behold  the  finished  dome  uprise 
Complete,  as  now  I  see  it  in  my  thought. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  will  you  paint  nc  more? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

No  more. 

BENVENUTO. 

'T  is  well. 

Sculpture  is  more  divine,  and  more  like  Nature, 
That  fashions  all  her  works  in  high  relief, 
And  that  is  sculpture.     This  vast  ball,  the  Earth, 
Was  moulded  out  of  clay,  and  baked  in  fire; 
Men,  women,  and  all  animals  that  breathe 
Are  statues,  and  not  paintings.     Even  the  plants, 
The  flowers,  the  fruits,  the  grasses,  were  first  sculp 
tured, 

And  colored  later.     Painting  is  a  lie, 
A  shadow  merely. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Truly,  as  you  say, 

Sculpture  is  more  than  painting.     It  is  greater 
To  raise  the  dead  to  life  than  to  create 
Phantoms  that  seem  to  live.     The  most  majestic 
Of  the  three  sister  arts  is  that  which  builds  ; 
The  eldest  o;  them  all,  to  whom  the  others 
Are  but  the  hand-maids  and  the  servitors, 
Being  but  imitation,  not  creation. 
Henceforth  I  dedicate  myself  to  her. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  no  more  from  the  marble  hew  those  forms 
That  fill  us  all  with  wonder  V 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Manv  statues 

Will  there  be  room  for  in  my  work.     Their  station 
Already  is  assigned  them  in  my  mind. 
But  things  move  slowly.     There  are  hindrances, 
Want  of  material,  want  of  means,  delays 
And  interruptions,  endless  interference 
Of  Cardinal  Commissioner^,  and  disputes 
And  jealousies  of  artists,  that  annoy  me. 
But  I  will  persevere  until  the  work 
Is  wholly  finished,  or  till  I  sink  down 
Surprised  by  death,  that  unexpected  guest. 
Who  waits  for  no  man's  leisure,  but  steps  in, 
Unasked  and  unannounced,  to  put  a  stop 
To  all  our  occupations  and  designs. 
And  then  perhaps  I  may  go  back  to  Florence; 
This  is  my  answer  to  Duke  Cosimo. 

VI. 
UKBIXO'S  FORTUNE. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  Studio.     MICHAEL  ANGELO 
and  URBINO. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  pausing  in  his  work. 

Urbino,  thou  and  I  are  both  old  men. 
My  strength  begins  to  fail  me. 

URBINO. 

Eccellenza, 

That  is  impossible.    Do  I  not  see  you 
Attack  the  marble  blocks  with  the  same  fury 
As  twenty  years  ago  ? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

'T  is  an  old  habit. 

I  must  have  learned  it  early  from  my  nurse 
At  Setignano,  the  stone-mason's  wife; 
For  the  first  sounds  I  heard  were  of  the  chisel 
Chipping  away  the  stone. 


At  every  stroke 
You  strike  fire  with  vour  chisel. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


The  marble  is  too  hard. 


Ay,  because 


It  is  a  block 

That  Topolino  sent  you  from  Carrara. 
He  is  a  judge  of  marble. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  remember. 

With  it  he  sent  me  something  of  his  making,  — 
A  Mercury,  with  long  body  and  short  legs, 
As  if  by  any  possibility 

A  messenger  of  the  gods  could  have  short  legs. 
It  was  no  more  like  Mercury  than  you  are, 
But  rather  like  those  little  plaster  figures 
That  peddlers  hawk  about  the  villages 
As  images  of  saints.     But  luckily 
For  Topolino,  there  are  many  people 
Who  see  no  difference  between  what  is  best 
And  what  is  only  good,  or  not  even  good; 
So  that  poor  artists  stand  in  their  esteem 
On  the  same  level  with  the  best,  or  higher. 

URBIXO. 
How  Eccellenza  laughed ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Poor  Topolino! 

All  men  are  not  born  artists,  nor  will  labor 
E'er  make  them  artists. 

URBIXO. 

No,  no  more 

Than  Emperors,  or  Popes,  or  Cardinals. 
One  must  be  chosen  for  it.     I  have  been 
Your  color-grinder  six  and  twenty  years, 
And  am  not  yet  an  artist. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Some  have  eves 

That  see  not ;  but  in  every  block  of  marble 
I  see  a  statue,  — see  it  as  distinctly 
As  if  it  stood  before  me  shaped  and  perfect 
In  attitude  and  action.     I  have  only 
To  hew  away  the  stone  walls  that  imprison 
The  lovely  apparition,  and  reveal  it 
To  other  eyes  as  mine  already  see  it. 
But  I  grow  old  and  weak.     What  wilt  thou  do 
When  I  am  dead,  Urbino  V 

URBINO. 

Eccellenza, 
I  must  then  serve  another  master. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Never! 

Bitter  is  servitude  at  best.     Already 
So  many  years  hast  thou  been  serving  me; 
But  rather  as  a  friend  than  as  a  servant. 
We  have  grown  old  together.     Dost  thou  think 
So  meanly  of  this  Michael  Angelo 
As  to  ima'gine  he  would  let  thee  serve, 
AVhen  he  is  free  from  service  ?    Take  this  purse, 
Two  thousand  crowns  in  gold. 

URBINO. 

Two  thousand  crown* ! 


330 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ay,  it  will  make  thee  rich.    Thou  shalt  not  die 
A  beggar  in  a  hospital. 

URBINO. 

Oh,  Master  I 

1IICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  cannot  have  them  with  me  on  the  journey 
That  I  am  undertaking.  The  last  garment 
That  men  will  make  for  me  will  have  no  pockets. 

URBINO,  kissing  the  hand  of  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
My  generous  master! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Hush! 


My  Providence ! 


The  valley  of  Clitumnus,  with  its  farms 

And  snow-white  oxen,  grazing  in  the  shade 

Of  the  tall  poplars  on  the  river's  brink. 

O  Nature,  gentle  mother,  tender  nurse! 

I,  who  have  never  loved  thee  as  I  ought, 

But  wasted  all  my  years  immured  in  cities, 

And  breathed  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  streets, 

Now  come  to  thee  for  refuge.    Here  is  peace. 

Yonder  I  see  the  little  hermitages 

Dotting  the  mountain  side  with  points  of  light, 

And  here  St.  Julian's  convent,  like  a  nest 

Of  curlews,  clinging  to  some  windy  cliff. 

Beyond  the  broad,  illimitable  plain 

Down  sinks  the  sun,  red  as  Apollo's  quoit, 

That,  by  the  envious  Zephyr  blown  aside, 

Struck  Hyacinthus  dead,  and  stained  the  earth 

With  his  young  blood,  that  blossomed  into  flowers. 

And  now,  instead  of  these  fair  deities, 

Dread  demons  haunt  the  earth;  hermits  inhabit 

The  leafy  homes  of  sylvan  Hamad ryads; 

And  jovial  friars,  rotund  and  rubicund, 

Replace  the  old  Silenus  with  hi*  ass. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

No1  *  word  more.    Go  now  to  bed,  old  man. 
Thou  has  served  Michael  Angelo.    Remember, 
Henceforward  thou  shalt  serve  no  other  master. 

VII. 

THE  OAKS   OF  MONTE  LUCA. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  alone  in  the  woods. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  still  it  is  among  these  ancient  oaks ! 
Surges  and  undulations  of  the  air 
Uplift  the  leafy  boughs,  and  let  them  fall 
With  scarce  a  sound.     Such  sylvan  quietudes 
Become  old  age.     These  huge  centennial  oaks, 
That  may  have  heard  in  infancy  the  trumpets 
Of  Barbarossa's  cavalry,  deride 
Man's  brief  existence,  that  with  all  his  strength 
He  cannot  stretch  beyond  the  hundredth  year. 
This  little  acorn,  turfianed  like  the  Turk, 
Which  with  mv  foot  I  spurn,  may  be  an  oak 
Hereafter,  feeding  with  its  bitter  mast 
The  fierce  wild  boar,  and  tossing  in  its  arms 
The  cradled  nests  of  birds,  when  all  the  men 
That  now  inhabit  this  vast  universe, 
They  and  their  children,  and  their  children's  chil 
dren, 

Shall  be  but  dust  and  mould,  and  nothing  more. 
Through  openings  in  the  trees  I  see  below  me 


Here  underneath  these  venerable  oaks, 

Wrinkled  and  brown  and  gnarled  like  them  witb 

age, 

A  brother  of  the  monastery  sits, 
Lost  in  his  meditations.     What  may  be 
The  questions  that  perplex,  the  hopes  that  cheer. 

him  V 
Good-evening,  holy  father. 


God  be  with  you. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Pardon  a  stranger  if  he  interrupt 
Tour  meditations. 


It  was  but  a  dream,  — 

The  old,  old  dream,  that  never  will  come  true; 
The  dream  that  all  my  life  I  have  been  dreaming 
And  yet  is  still  a  dream. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

All  men  have  dreams. 

I  have  had  mine;  but  none  of  them  came  true; 
They  were  but  vanity.     Sometimes  I  think 
The'happiness  of  man  lies  in  pursuing, 
Not  in  possessing;  for  the  things  possessed 
Lose  halt  their  value.     Tell  me  of  your  dream. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


331 


The  yearning  of  my  heart,  my  sole  desire, 
That  like  the  sheaf  of  Joseph" stands  upright, 
While  all  the  others  bend  and  bow  to  it ; 
The  passion  that  torments  me,  and  that  breathes 
New  meaning  into  the  dead  forms  of  prayer, 
Is  that  with  mortal  eyes  I  may  behold 
The  Eternal  City. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Rome  ? 


There  is  but  one ; 

The  rest  are  merely  names.    I  think  of  it 
As  the  Celestial  City,  paved  with  gold. 
And  sentinelled  with  angels. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Would  it  were. 

I  have  just  fled  from  it.     It  is  beleaguered 
By  Spanish  troops,  led  by  the  Duke  of  Alva. 


But  still  for  me  't  is  the  Celestial  City, 
And  I  would  see  it  once  before  I  die. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Each  one  must  bear  his  cross. 

MONK. 

Were  it  a  cross 

That  had  been  laid  upon  me,  I  could  bear  it, 
Or  fall  with  it.     It  is  a  crucifix; 
I  am  nailed  hand  and  foot,  and  I  am  dying ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  would  you  see  in  Rome  ? 

MONK. 

His  Holiness. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Him  that  was  once  the  Cardinal  Caraffa? 
You  would  but  see  a  man  of  fourscore  years, 
With  sunken  eyes,  burning  like  carbuncles, 
Who  sits  at  table  with  his  friends  for  hours, 
Cursing  the  Spaniards  as  a  race  of  Jews 
And  miscreant  Moors.     And  with  what  soldiery 
Think  you  he  now  defends  the  Eternal  City  ? 

MONK. 
With  legions  of  bright  angels. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

So  he  calls  them ; 

And  yet  in  fact  these  bright  angelic  legions 
Are  only  German  Lutherans. 

MONK,  crossing  himself. 

Heaven  protect  us ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

What  further  would  you  see  ? 

MONK. 

The  Cardinals, 
Going  in  their  gilt  coaches  to  High  Mass. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Men  do  not  go  to  Paradise  in  coaches. 
MONK. 

The  catacombs,  the  convents,  and  the  churches  ; 

The  ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week 

In  all  their  pomp,  or,  at  the  Epiphany, 

The  Feast  of  the  Santissima  Bambino 

At  Ara  Cceli.     But  I  shall  not  see  them. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

These  pompous  ceremonies  of  the  Church 
Are  but  an  empty  show  to  him  who  knows 
The  actors  in  them.     Stay  here  in  your  convent, 
For  he  who  goes  to  Rome  may  see  "too  much. 
What  would  vou  further? 


I  would  see  the  painting 
Of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  smoke  of  incense  and  of  altar  candles 
Has  blackened  it  already. 

MONK. 

Woe  is  me! 

Then  I  would  hear  Allegri's  Miserere, 
Sung  by  the  Papal  choir. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  dismal  dirge ! 

I  am  an  old,  old  man,  and  I  have  lived 
In  Rome  for  thirty  years  and  more,  and  know 
The  jarring  of  the  wheels  of  that  great  world, 
Its  jealousies,  its  discords,  and  its  strife. 
Therefore  I  say  to  you,  remain  content. 
Here  in  your  convent,  here  among  your  woods, 
Where  only  there  is  peace.     Go  not  to  Rome. 
There  was  of  old  a  monk  of  Wittenberg 
Who  went  to  Rome ;  you  may  have  heard  of  him. 
His  name  was  Luther;   and  vou   know  what  fol 
lowed.  [77<e  convent  bell  rings. 

MONK,  rising. 

It  is  the  convent  bell;  it  rings  for  vespers. 
Let  us  go  in;  we  both  will  pray  for  peace. 

VIII. 
THE   DEAD  CHRIST. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  studio.    MICHAEL  ANOELO, 

with   a   light    working   upon   the   Dead    Christ. 
Midnight. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

0  Death,  why  is  it  I  cannot  portray 

Thy  form  and  features  ?    Do  I  stand  too  near  thee  ? 
Or  dost  thou  hold  my  hand,  and  draw  rne  back 
As  being  thy  disciple,  not  thy  master? 
Let  him  who  knows  not  what  old  age  is  like 
Have  patience  till  it  comes,  and  lie  will  know. 

1  once  had  skill  to  fashion  Life  and  Death 
And  Sleep,  which  is  the  counterfeit  of  Death; 
And  I  remember  what  Giovanni  Strozzi 
Wrote  underneath  my  statue  of  the  Night 

In  San  Lorenzo,  ah,  so  long  ago ! 

Grateful  to  me  is  sleep  !     More  grateful  now 

Than  it  was  then  ;  for  all  my  friends  are  dead; 

And  she  is  dead,  the  noblest  of  them  all. 

I  saw  her  face,  when  the  great  sculptor  Death, 

Whom  men  should  call  Divine,  had  at  a -blow 

Stricken  her  into  marble;  and  I  kissed 

Her  cold  white  hand.     What  was  it  held  me  back 

From  kissing  her  fair  forehead,  and  those  lips. 

Those  dead,  dumb  lips  ?    Grateful  to  me  is  sleep.' 

Enter  GIORGIO  VASARI. 

GIORGIO. 

Good-evening,  or  good-morning,  for  I  know  not 
Which  of  the  two  it  is. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

How  came  you  in  ? 


332 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Ascanio 


GIORGIO. 

Why,  by  the  door,  as  all  men  do. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Must  have  forgotten  to  bolt  it. 

GIORGIO. 

Probabiy. 

Am  I  a  spirit,  or  so  like  a  spirit, 
That  I  could  slip  through  bolted  door  or  window? 
As  I  was  passing  down  the  street,  I  saw 
A  glimmer  of  light,  and   heard    the  well-known 

chink 

Of  chisel  upon  marble.     So  I  entered, 
To  see  what  keeps  you  from  your  bed  so  late. 

MICHAEL  AXGELO,  coming  forward  with  the  lamp. 

You  have  been  revelling  with  your  boon  compan 
ions, 

Giorgio  Vasari,  and  you  come  to  me 
At  an  untimely  hour. 


The  Pope  hath  sent  me. 
His  Holiness  desires  to  see  again 
The  drawing  you  once  showed  him  of  the  dome 
Of  the  Basilica. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

We  will  look  for  it. 


What  is  the  marble  group  that  glimmers  there 
Behind  you  ? 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Nothing,  and  yet  everything,  — 
As  one  may  take  it.     It  is  my  own  tomb, 
That  I  am  building. 

GIORGIO. 

Do  n6t  hide  it  from  me. 

By  our  long  friendship  and  the  love  I  bear  you, 
Refuse  me  not! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  letting  fall  the  lamp. 

Life  hath  become  to  me 
An  empty  theatre,  —  its  lights  extinguished, 
The  music  silent,  and  the  actors  gone ; 
And  I  alone  sit  musing  on  the  scenes 
That  once  have  been.     I  am  so  old  that  Deatli 
Oft  plucks  me  by  the  cloak,  to  come  with  him  ; 
And  some  day,  like  this  lamp,  shall  I  fall  down: 
And  my  last  spark  of  life  will  be  extinguished. 
Ah  me'!  ah  me!  what  darkness  of  despair! 
So  near  to  death,  and  yet  so  far  from  God! 


This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a  great  favorite  in 
Spain.  No  less  than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or 
running  commentaries,  upon  it  have  been  pub 
lished,  no  one  of  which,  however,  possesses  great 
poetic  merit.  That  of  the  Carthusian  monk 
Rodrigo  de  Valdepefias,  is  the  best.  It  is  known 
as  the  Olosa  del  t'artujo.  There  is  also  a  prose 
Commentary  by  Luis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were  found 
in  the  author's  pocket,  after  his  death  on   th 
field  of  battle. 

"  O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

"  Our  days  are  covered  o  er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 

"  Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

"Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs." 

Page  25.     King  Christian. 

Nils  Juel  was  a  celebrated  Danish  Admiral) 
and  Peder  Wessel,  a  Vice-Admiral,  who  for 
his  great  prowess  received  the  popular  title  of 
Tordenskiold,  or  Thundershield.  In  childhood 
he  was  a  tailor's  apprentice,  and  rose  to  his  high 
rank  before  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  when  he 
was  killed  in  a  duel 

Page  29.     The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

This  Ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while  riding 
on  the  sea-shore  at  Newport.  A  year  or  two 
previous  a  skeleton  had  been  dug  up  at  Fall 
River,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded  armor ;  and 
the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  connecting  it  with  the 
Round  Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known  hith 
erto  as  the  Old  Windmill,  though  now  claimed 
by  the  Danes  as  a  work  of  their  early  ancestors. 
Professor  Rafn,  in  the  AKmoires  de  la  Societe 
Rwyale  des  Antiquaires  du  Nord,  for  1838-1839, 
says : — 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the 
style  in  which  the  more  ancient  stone  edifices  of 
the  North  were  constructed, — the  style  which  be 
longs  to  the  Roman  or  Ante-Gothic  architecture, 
and  which,  especially  after  the  time  of  Charle 
magne,  diffused  itself  from  Italy  over  the  whole 
of  the  West  and  North  of  Europe,  where  it  con 
tinued  to  predominate  until  the  close  of  the 


twelfth  century,— that  style  which  some  author 
have,  from  one  of  its  most  striking  characteris 
tics^  called  the  round  arch  style,  the  same  whic 
m  England  is  denominated  Saxon  and  sometimes 
JNorman  architecture. 

"On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there 
are  no  ornaments  remaining,  which  might  possibly 
have  served  to  guide  us  in  assigning  the  probable 
date  of  its  erection.  That  no  vestige  whatever  is 
found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor  any  approxima 
tion  to  it,  is  indicative  of  an  earlier  rather  than 
of  a  later  period.  From  such  characteristics  as 
remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely  form  any  other 
inference  than  one,  in  which  I  am  persuaded  that 
all  who  are  familiar  with  Old-Northern  architec 
ture  will  concur,  THAT  THIS  BUILDING  WAS 

ERECTED   AT   A    PERIOD    DECIDEDLY    NOT    LATER 

THAN  TLIE  TWELFTH  CENTUitr.  This  remark 
applies,  of  course,  to  the  original  building  only, 
and  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  subsequently 
received ;  for  there  are  several  such  alterations 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  building  which  cannot 
be  mistaken,  and  which  were  most  likely  occa 
sioned  by  its  being  adapted  in  modern  times  to 
various  uses ;  for  example,  as  the  substructure 
of  a  windmill,  and  latterly  as  a  hay  magazine.  To 
the  same  times  may  be  referred  the  windows,  the 
fireplace,  and  the  apertures  made  above  the  col 
umns.  That  this  building  could  not  have  been 
erected  for  a  windmill,  is  what  an  architect  will 
easily  discern." 

I  will  not  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the  point. 
It  is  sufficiently  well  established  for  the  purpose 
of  a  ballad ;  though  doubtless  many  a  citizen  of 
Newport,  who  has  passed  his  days  within  sight 
of  the  Round  Tower,  will  be  ready  to  explain, 
with  Sancho  :  ' '  God  bless  me  !  did  I  not  warn  yon 
to  have  a  care  of  what  you  were  doing,  for  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  windmill ;  and  nobody  could 
mistake  it,  but  one  who  had  the  like  in  his  head. " 

Page  31.     Skoal ! 

In  Scandinavia,  this  is  the  customary  saluta- 
;ion  when  drinking  a  health.  I  have  slightly 
changed  the  orthography  of  the  word,  in  order 
.o  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation. 

Page  32.     The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

The  tradition  upon  which  this  ballad  is  found- 
d,  and  the  "shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall,' 
till  exist  in  England.  The  goblet  is  in  the  pos- 
ession  of  Sir  Christopher  Musgrave,  Bart.,  oi 
5den  Hall,  Cumberland ;  and  is  not  so  entirely 
battered  as  the  ballad  leaves  it. 

Page  32.     The  Elected  Knight. 

This  strange  and  somewhat  mystical  ballad  is 
rom  Nyerup  and  Rahbek's  Danxke  Viser  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  seems  to  refer  to  the  first 

reaching  of  Christianity  in  the  North,  and  to 
he  institution  of  Knight-Errautry.  The  three 

laidens  I  suppose  to  be  Faith,  Hope,  and  Chari- 
j.  The  irregularities  of  the  original  have  been 
arefully  preserved  in  the  translation. 


334 


NOTES. 


Page  33.     The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  lingering 
about  rural  life  in  Sweden,  which  renders  it  a  fit 
theme  for  song.  Almost  primeval  simplicity 
reigns  over  that  Northern  land, — almost  primeval 
solitude  and  stillness.  You  pass  out  from  the 
gate  of  the  city,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  scene 
changes  to  a  wild,  woodland  landscape.  Around 
you  are  forests  of  nr.  Overhead  hang  the  long, 
fan-like  branches,  trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy 
with  red  and  blue  cones.  Under  foot  is  a.  carpet 
of  yellow  leaves;  and  the  air  is  warm  and  balmy. 
On  a  wooden  bridge  you  cross  a  little  silver 
stream  ;  and  anon  come  forth  into  a  pleasant  and 
sunny  land  of  farms.  Wooden  fences  divide  the 
adjoining  fields.  Across  the  road  are  gates, 
which  are  opened  by  troops  of  children.  The 
peasants  take  off  their  hats  as  you  pass ;  you 
sneeze,  and  they  cry,  "God  bless  you!''  The 
houses  in  the  villages  and  smaller  towns  are  all 
built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for  the  most  part 
painted  red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns  are  strewn 
with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir  boughs.  In  many 
villages  there  are  no  taverns,  and  the  peasants 
take  turns  in  receiving  travellers.  The  thrifty 
housewife  shows  you  into  the  best  chamber,  the 
walls  of  which  are  hung  round  with  rude  pictures 
from  the  Bible  ;  and  brings  you  her  heavy  silver 
spoons, — an  heirloom, — to  dip  the  curdled  milk 
from  the  pan.  You  have  oaten  cakes  baked  some 
months  before,  or  bread  with  anise-seed  and  cori 
ander  in  it,  or  perhaps  a  little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought  his 
horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed  them  to 
your  carriage.  Solitary  travellers  come  and  go  in 
uncouth  one-horse  chaises.  Most  of  them  have 
pipes  in  their  mouths,  and,  hanging  around  their 
necks  in  front,  a  leather  wallet,  in  which  they 
carry  tobacco,  and  the  great  banknotes  of  the 
country,  as  large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet, 
also  groups  of  Dalekarlian  peasant-women,  travel 
ling  homeward  or  townward  in  pursuit  of  work. 
They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their  hands 
their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the  hol 
low  of  the  foot,  and  soles  of  birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches,  stand 
ing  by  the  roadside,  each  in  its  own  little  Garden 
of  Gethsemane.  In  the  parish  register  great 
events  are  doubtless  recorded.  Some  old  king 
was  christened  or  buried  in  that  church  ;  and  a 
little  sexton,  with  a  rusty  key,  shows  you  the 
baptismal  font,  or  the  coffin.  In  the  churchyard 
are  a  few  flowers,  and  much  green  grass;  and 
daily  the  shadow  of  the  church  spire,  with  its 
long,  tapering  finger,  counts  the  tombs,  repre 
senting  a  dial-plate  of  human  life,  on  which  the 
hours  and  minutes  are  the  graves  of  men.  The 
stones  are  flat,  and  large,  and  low,  and  perhaps 
sunken,  like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On  some 
are  armorial  bearings  ;  on  others  only  the  initials 
of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a  date,  as  on  the  roofs 
of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all  sleep  with  their 
heads  to  the  westward.  Each  held  a  lighted 
taper  in  his  hand  when  he  died  ;  and  in  his  coffin 
were  placed  his  little  heart-treasures,  and  a  piece 
of  money  for  his  last  journey.  Babes  that  came 
lifeless  into  the  world  were  carried  in  the  arms  of 
gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only  cradle  they  ever 
Blept  in ;  and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead  mother 
were  laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child  that 
lived  and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene 
the  village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in  the 
stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his  heart,  "How 
quietly  they  rest,  all  the  departed  !  " 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a  poor-box, 
fastened  to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and  secured  by 
a  padlock,  with  a  sloping  wooden  roof  to  keep  off 
the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday,  the  peasants  sit  on  the 
church  steps  and  con  their  psalm-books.  Others 
are  coming  down  the  road  with  their  beloved 


pastor,  who  talks  to  them  of  holy  things  from 
beneath  his  broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of 
fields  and  harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the 
sower,  that  went  forth  to  sow.  He  leads  them 
to  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant 
pastures  of  the  spirit-land.  He  is  their  patri 
arch,  and,  like  Meichizedek,  both  priest  and 
king,  though  he  has  no  other  throne  than  the 
church  pulpit.  The  women  carry  psalm-books 
in  their  hands,  wrapped  in  silk  handkerchiefs, 
and  listen  devoutly  to  the  good  man's  words. 
But  the  young  men,  like  Gallic,  care  for  none  of 
these  things.  They  are  busy  counting  the  plaits 
in  the  kirtles  of  the  peasant-girls,  their  number 
being  an  indication  of  the  wearer's  wealth.  It 
may  end  in  a  wedding. 

I  will  endeavor  to  describe  a  village  wedding  in 
Sweden.  It  shall  be  in  summer-time,  that  there 
may  be  flowers,  and  in  a  southern  province,  that 
the  bride  may  be  fair.  The  early  song  of  the 
lark  and  of  chanticleer  are  mingling  in  the  clear 
morning  air,  and  the  sun,  the  heavenly  bride 
groom  with  golden  locks,  arises  in  the  east,  just 
as  our  earthly  bridegroom  with  yellow  hair  arises 
in  the  south.  In  the  yard  there  is  a  sound  of 
voices  and  a  trampling  of  hoofs,  and  horses  are 
led  forth  and  saddled.  The  steed  that  is  to  bear 
the  bridegroom  has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon  his 
forehead,  and  a  garland  of  corn-flowers  around 
his  neck.  Friends  from  the  neighboring  farms 
come  riding  in,  their  blue  cloaks  streaming  to  the 
wind ;  and  finally  the  happy  bridegroom,  with  a 
whip  in  his  hand,  and  a  monstrous  nosegay  in  the 
breast  of  his  black  jacket,  comes  forth  from  his 
chamber ;  and  then  to  horse  and  away,  towards 
the  village  where  the  bride  already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  spokesman,  followed  by 
some  half-dozen  village  musicians.  Next  comes 
the  bridegroom  between  his  two  groomsmen, 
and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends  and  wedding 
guests,  half  of  them  perhaps  with  pistols  and 
guns  in  their  hands.  A  kind  of  baggage-wagon 
brings  up  the  rear,  laden  with  food  and  drink  for 
these  merry  pilgrims.  At  the  entrance  of  every 
village  stands  a  triumphal  arch,  adorned  with 
flowers  and  ribbons  and  evergreens  ;  and  as  they 
pass  beneath  it  the  wedding  guests  fire  a  salute, 
and  the  whole  procession  stops.  And  straight 
from  every  pocket  flies  a  black  jack,  filled  with 
punch  or  brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  among  the  crowd  ;  provisions  are  brought 
from  the  wagon,  and  after  eating  and  drinking 
and  hurrahing,  the  procession  moves  forward 
again,  and  at  length  draws  near  the  house  of  the 
bride.  Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  announce 
that  a  knight  and  his  attendants  are  in  the  neigh 
boring  forest,  and  pray  for  hospitality.  "How 
many  are  you  ?  "  asks  the  bride's  father.  ' '  At 
least  three  hundred, "  is  the  answer ;  and  to  this  the 
host  replies,  "Yes ;  were  you  seven  times  as  many, 
you  should  all  be  welcome :  and  in  token  thereof 
receive  this  cup."  Whereupon  each  herald  re 
ceives  a  can  of  ale ;  and  soon  after  the  whole 
jovial  company  comes  storming  into  the  farmer's 
yard,  and,  riding  round  the  May-pole,  which 
stands  in  the  centre,  alights  amid  a  grand  salute 
and  flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown  upon 
her  head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin 
Mary  in  old  church  paintings.  She  is  dressed  in 
a  red  bodice  and  kirtle  with  loose  linen  sleeves. 
There  is  a  gilded  belt  around  her  waist;  and 
around  her  neck  strings  of  golden  beads,  and  a 
golden  chain.  On  the  crown  rests  a  wreath  of 
wild  roses,  and  below  it  another  of  cypress. 
Loose  over  her  shoulders  falls  her  flaxen  hair; 
and  her  blue  innocent  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  O  thou  good  soul !  thou  hast  hard 
hands,  but  a  soft  heart !  Thou  art  poor.  The 
very  ornaments  thou  wearest  are  not  thine.  They 
have  been  hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou 


NOTES. 


335 


rich  ;  rich  in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy 
first,  young,  fervent  love.  The  blessing  of 
Heaven  be  upon  thee!  So  thinks  the  parish 
priest,  as  he  joins  together  the  hands  of  bride 
and  bridegroom,  saying,  in  deep,  solemn  tones, — 
''I  give  thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy 
wedded  wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the  half 
of  thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every  third 
penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or  may  in 
herit,  and  all  the  rights  which  Upland's  laws  pro 
vide,  and  the  holy  King  Erik  gave." 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride  sits 
between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest.  The 
spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after  the  ancient 
custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards  it  well 
with  quotations  from  the  Bible ;  and  invites  the 
Saviour  to  be  present  at  this  marriage  feast,  as  he 
was  at  the  marriage  feast  in  Cana  of  Galilee. 
The  table  is  not  sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes 
a  long  arm,  and  the  feast  goes  cheerly  on.  Punch 
and  brandy  pass  round  between  the  courses,  and 
here  and  there  a  pipe  is  smoked  while  waiting  for 
the  next  dish.  They  sit  long  at  table ;  but,  as  all 
things  must  have  an  end,  so  must  a  Swedish 
dinner.  Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off  by 
the  bride  and  the  priest,  who  perform  a  solemn 
minuet  together.  Not  till  after  midnight  comes 
the  last  dance.  The  girls  form  a  ring  around  the 
bride,  to  keep  her  from  the  hands  of  the  married 
women,  who  endeavor  to  break  through  the  magic 
circle,  and  seize  their  new  sister.  After  long 
struggling  they  succeed ;  and  the  crown  is  taken 
from  her  head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and 
her  bodice  is  unlaced,  and  her  kirtle  taken  oft"; 
and  like  a  vestal  virgin  cla«l  all  in  white  she  goes, 
but  it  is  to  her  marriage  chamber,  not  to  her 
Eprave ;  and  the  wedding  guests  follow  her  with 
fighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And  this  is  a 
village  bridal. 

Nor  must  I  forget  the  suddenly  changing 
seasons  of  the  Northern  clime.  There  is  no  long 
and  lingering  spring,  unfolding  leaf  and  blossom 
One  by  one ;  no  long  and  lingering  autumn, 
pompous  with  many-colored  leaves  and  the  glow 
of  Indian  summers.  But  winter  and  summer 
are  wonderful,  and  pass  into  each  other.  The 
quail  has  hardly  ceased  piping  in  the  corn,  when 
winter  from  the  folds  of  trailing  clouds  sows 
broadcast  over  the  land  snow,  icicles,  and  rattling 
hail.  The  days  wane  apace.  Erelong  the  sun 
hardly  rises  above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at 
all.  The  moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the 
day ;  only,  at  noon  they  are  pale  and  wan,  and  in 
the  southern  sky  a  red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset, 
burns  along  the  horizon,  and  then  goes  out.  And 
pleasantly  under  the  silver  moon,  and  under  the 
silent,  solemn  stars,  ring  the  steel-shoes  of  the 
skaters  on  the  frozen  sea,  and  voices,  and  the 
sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to  burn, 
faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing  in  the 
waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft  crimson 
glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is  a  blush  on  the 
cheek  of  night.  The  colors  come  and  go,  and 
change  from  crimson  to  gold,  from  gold  to  crim 
son.  The  snow  is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Two 
fold  from  the  zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a  fiery 
sword ;  and  a  broad  band  passes  athwart  the 
heavens  like  a  summer  sunset.  Soft  purple 
clouds  come  sailing  over  the  sky,  and  through 
their  vapory  folds  the  winking  stars  shine  white 
as  silver.  With  such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry 
Christinas  ushered  in,  though  only  a  single  star 
heralded  the  first  Christmas.  And  in  memory 
of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants  dance  on 
straw ;  and  the  peasant-girls  throw  straws  at  the 
timbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that 
sticks  in  a  crack  shall  a  groomsman  come  to  their 
wedding.  Merry  Christmas  indeed  !  For  pious 
souls  there  shall  be  church  songs  and  sermons, 
but  for  Swedish  peasants,  brandy  and  nut-brown 


ale  in  wooden  bowls ;  and  the  great  Yule-cake 
crowned  with  a  cheese,  and  garlanded  with  apples, 
and  upholding  a  three-armed  candlestick  over  the 
Christmas  feast.  They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of 
Jons  Lundsbracka,  and  Lunkenf  us,  and  the  great 
Riddar  Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  midsummer  full  of 
blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is  come ! 
Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers  and  festival  of 
heathen  Balder ',  and  in  every  village  there  is  a 
May-pole  fifty  feet  high,  with  wreaths  and 
roses  and  ribbons  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  a 
noisy  weather-cock  on  top,  to  tell  the  village 
whence  the  wind  cometh  and  whither  it  goeth. 
The  sun  does  not  set  till  ten  o'clock  at  night ; 
and  the  children  are  at  play  in  the  streets  an  hour 
later.  The  windows  and  doors  are  all  open,  and 
you  may  sit  and  read  till  midnight  without  a 
candle.  O,  how  beautiful  is  the  summer  night, 
which  is  not  night,  but  a  sunless  yet  unclouded 
day,  descending  upon  earth  with  dews  and  shad 
ows  and  refreshing  coolness  !  How  beautiful  the 
long,  mild  twilight,  which  like  a  silver  clasp 
unites  to-day  with  yesterday !  How  beautiful 
the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and  Evening  thus 
sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  beneath  the  starless 
sky  of  midnight !  From  the  church-tower  in  the 
public  square  the  bell  tolls  the  hour,  with  a  soft, 
musical  chime ;  and  the  watchman,  whose  watch- 
tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a  blast  in  his  horn  for 
each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times,  to 
the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous 
voice  he  chants, — 

"  Ho  !  watchman,  ho  ' 
Twelve  is  the  clock  1 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand 
And  hostile  hand  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  !" 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can  see 
the  sun  all  night  long;  and  farther  north  the 
priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the  warm  midnight, 
and  lights  his  pipe  with  a  common  burning-glass. 

Page  33.     The  Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions. 

In  Swedish,  LofhyddohiJgtiden,  the  Leaf- 
huts'-high-tide. 

Page  33.     Hijrbcrg. 

The  peasant-painter  of  Sweden.  He  is  known 
chiefly  by  his  altar-pieces  in  the  village  churches. 

Page  33.    Wallin. 

A  distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet.  He 
is  particularly  remarkable  for  the  beauty  and  sub 
limity  of  his  psalms. 

Page  45.     As  Lope  says. 

"Lacolera 

do  un  Eepanol  sentado  DO  Re  tetnpla, 
sino  le  represcntan  en  dos  horas 
hasta  el  final  juicio  desde  el  Genesin." 

Lope  de  Vega. 

Page  40.     Abernuncio  Satanaa! 

"Digo,  Senora,  respondio"  Sancho,  lo  quo  tcn- 
go  dicho,  que  do  los  azotes  abernuncio.  Abre- 
nuncio,  habeis  de  dccir,  Sancho,  y  no  como  decis, 
dijo  el  Duque."  —  Don  Quixote,  Part  II.,  ch.  35. 

Page  48.     Fray  Carrillo, 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a  Spanish  Epigram. 

"  Siempro  Fray  Carrillo  est&s 
eansandonos  acii  fuera ; 
<iuien  en  tu  celda  estuviera 
para  no  vcrto  jnnias  !  " 

linhl  <te  Faber.    Floresta,  No.  611. 


*  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


NOTES. 


Page  48.     Padre  Francisco. 

This  is  from  an  Italian  popular  &ong. 

" '  Padre  Francesco, 

Padre  Francesco  ! ' 
— Cosa  volete  del  Padre  Francesco  ?  — 

'  V '  e  una  bella  ragazzina 

Che  si  vuole  conf  essar  ! ' 
Fatte  1'  entrare.  fatte  T  entrare  ! 
Che  la  voglio  confessare.  " 

Koptxch.     Volksthumliche  Hoesien  aua  alien  Jfund- 
arten  Italiens  und  seiner  Inseln,  p.  194. 

Page  49.     Ave  !  cujus  calcem  dare. 

From  a  monkish  hymn  of  the  twelfth  century, 
in  Sir  Alexander  Croke's  Essay  on  the  Origin, 
Progress,  and  Decline  of  Rhyming  Latin  Verse, 
p.  109. 

Page  50.     The  gold  of  the  Busne. 
Busne  is  the  name  given  by  the  Gypsies  to  all 
Who  are  not  of  their  race. 

Page  51.     Count  of  the  CaUs. 

The  Gypsies  call  themselves  Gales.  See  Bor- 
Tow's  valuable  and  extremely  interesting  work, 
The  Zincali ;  or  an  Account  of  the  Gypsies  in 
Spain.  London,  1841. 

Page  52.     Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise. 

"  6  Y  volviendome  a  un  lado,  vf  a  un  Avarien- 
to,  que  estaba  preguntando  a  otro  (que  por  haber 
sido  embalsamado,  y  estar  lexos  sus  tripas  no 
hablaba,  porque  no  habian  llegado  si  habian  de 
resucitar  aquel  diatodos  los  enterrados),  si  resuci- 
tarian  unos  bolsones  suyos  ?  "  —  El  Sueilo  de 
las  Calaceras. 

Page  52.  And  amen!  said  my  Cidthe  Cam- 
peador. 

A  line  from  the  ancient  Poema  del  Cid. 

"  Amen,  dixo  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador." 

Line  3044. 

Page  52.     The  river  of  his  thoughts. 
This  expression  is  from  Dante ; 

"  Si  che  chiaro 
Per  essa  scenda  della  mente  il  flume.  " 

Byron    has    likewise    used  the  expression ; 
though  I  do  not  recollect  in  which  of  his  poems. 

Page  52.     Mari  Franca. 

A  common  Spanish  proverb,  used  to  turn  aside 
a  question  one  does  not  wish  to  answer  ; 

"Porque  caso  Mari  Franca 

quatro  leguas  de  Salamanca.  " 

Page  52.     Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes. 

The  Spaniards,  with  good  reason,  consider  this 
color  of  the  eye  as  beautiful,  and  celebrate  it  in 
song  ;  as,  for  example,  in  the  well-known  Villan- 
cico : 

"  Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 
ay  los  mis  ojuelos, 
ay  hagan  los  cielos 
que  de  mi  te  acuerdes  ! 

Tengo  confianza 
de  mis  verdes  ojos." 

Bohl  de  Faber.    Floresta,  No.  255. 

Dante  speaks  of  Beatrice's  eyes  as  emeralds. 
Purgatorio,  xxxi.  116.  Lami  says,  in  his  Anno- 
tazioni,  "  Erano  i  suoi  occhi  d'  un  turchino  ver- 
diccio,  simile  a  quel  del  mare." 

Page  52.     The  Avenging  Child. 

See  the  ancient  Ballads  of  El  Infante  Ven- 
jador,  and  Calayons. 


Page.  53.     All  are  sleeping. 

From  the  Spanish.  Bohl  de  Falter,  Floresta. 
No.  282. 

Page  56.     Good  night. 

From  the  Spanish ;  as  are  likewise  the  songs 
immediately  following,  and  that  which  com 
mences  the  first  scene  of  Act  III. 

Page  60.     The  evil  eye. 

"In  the  Gitano  language,  casting  the  evil  eye 
is  called  Querelar  nasula,  which  simply  means 
making  sick,  and  which,  according  to  the  com 
mon  superstition,  is  accomplished  by  casting  an 
evil  look  at  people,  especially  children,  who, 
from  the  tenderness  of  their  constitution,  are 
supposed  to  be  more  easily  blighted  than  those  of 
a  more  mature  age.  After  receiving  the  evil 
glance,  they  fall  sick,  and  die  in  a  few  hours. 

"  The  Spaniards  have  very  little  to  say  respect 
ing  the  evil  eye,  though  the  belief  in  it  is  very 
prevalent,  especially  in  Andalusia,  amongst  the 
lower  orders.  A  stag's  horn  is  considered  a  good 
safeguard,  and  on  that  account  a  small  horn,  tip 
ped  with  silver,  is  frequently  attached  to  the 
children's  necks  by  means  of  a  cord  braided  from 
the  hair  of  a  black  mare's  tail.  Should  the  evil 
glance  be  cast,  it  is  imagined  that  the  horn  re 
ceives  it,  and  instantly  snaps  asunder.  Such 
horns  may  be  purchased  in  some  of  the  silver 
smiths'  shops  at  Seville." — SORROW'S  Zincali. 
Vol.  I.  ch.  ix. 

Page  60.     On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand. 

This  and  the  following  scraps  of  song  are  from 
Borrow' s  Zincali;  or  an  Account  of  the  Gypsies 
in  Spain. 

The  Gypsy  words  in  the  same  scene  may  be 
thus  interpreted : 

John-Dorados,  pieces  of  gold. 

Pigeon,  a  simpleton. 

In  your  morocco,  stripped. 

Doves,  sheets. 

Moon,  a  shirt. 

Chirelin,  a  thief. 

Murcigalleros,those  who  steal  at  nightfall. 

Rastilleros,  footpads. 

Hermit,  highway-robber. 

Planets,  candles. 

Commandments,  the  fingers. 

Saint  Martin  asleep,  to  rob  a  person  asleep. 

Lanterns,  eyes. 

Goblin,  police-officer. 

Papagayo,  a  spy. 

Vineyards  and  Dancing  John,  to  take  flight. 

Page  62.     If  thou  art  sleepii  g,  maiden. 
From  the  Spanish ;  as  is  likewise  the  song  of 
the  Contrabandista  on  page  62. 

Page  65.     All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the  early 
governors  of  Flanders,  appointed  by  the  kings  of 
France.  Lyderick  du  Bucq,  in  the  days  of  Clo- 
taire  the  Second,  was  the  first  of  them ;  and 
Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer,  who  stole  away  the  fair 
Judith,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bald,  from  the 
French  court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges,  was 
the  last.  After  him  the  title  of  Forester  was 
changed  to  that  of  Count.  Philippe  d'Alsace, 
Guy  de  Dampierre,  and  Louis  de  Crecy,  coming 
later  in  the  order  of  time,  were  therefore  rather 
Counts  than  Foresters.  Philippe  went  twice  to 
the  Holy  Land  as  a  Crusader,  and  died  of  the 
plague  at  St.  Jean-d'Acre,  shortly  after  the  cap 
ture  of  the  city  by  the  Christians.  Guy  de  Dam 
pierre  died  in  the  prison  of  Compiegne.  Louis  de 
Crecy  was  son  and  successor  of  Robert  de  Btth- 
une,  who  strangled  his  wife,  Yolande  de  Bour- 


A'OTES. 


337 


gogne,  with  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  for  having  cavaliers  of  that  day  wore  but  a  single  spur  each, 
poisoned,  at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  Charles,  his  these  vouched  to  God  for  the  violent  and  bloody 
son  by  his  first  wife,  Blanche  d'Anjou.  death  of  seven  hundred  of  his  creatures. 


Page  65.     Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended. 

When  Philippe-le-Btl,  king  of  France,  visited 
Flanders  with  his  queen,  she  was  so  astonished  at 
the  magnificence  of  the  dames  of  Bruges,  that  she 
exclaimed:  "  Je  croyais  etre  seule  reine  ici,  mais 
il  parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre  qui  se  trouventdana 
nos  prisons  sont  tons  des  princes,  car  leurs 
femmes  sont  habilees  comme  des  princesses,  et 
des  reines." 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bruges, 
and  Ypres  went  to  Paris  to  pay  homage  to  King 
John,  in  1351,  they  were  received  with  great 
pomp  and  distinction ;  but,  being  invited  to 
a  festival,  they  observed  that  their  seats  at  table 
were  not  furnished  with  cushions ;  whereupon,  to 
make  known  their  displeasure  at  this  want  of  re 
tard  to  their  dignity,  they  folded  their  rich 
ly  embroidered  cloaks  and  seated  themselves  upon 
them.  On  rising  from  table,  they  left  their  cloaks  ' 
behind  them,  and,  being  informed  of  their  appa 
rent  forgetf ulness,  Simon  van  Eertrycke,  burgo 
master  of  Bruges,  replied,  "  We  Flemings  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  away  our  cushions 
after  dinner." 

Page  65.  Knights  u'ho  bore  the  Fleece  of 
Gold. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le  Bon,  es 
poused  Isabella  of  Portugal  on  the  10th  of  Jan 
uary,  1430 ;  and  on  the  same  day  instituted  the 
famous  order  of  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Page  65.     I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was 
left  by  the  death  of  her  father,  Charles-le- 
Temeraire,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  the  richest 
heiress  of  Europe.  She  came  to  Bruges,  as 
Countess  of  Flanders,  in  1477,  and  in  the  same 
year  was  married  by  proxy  to  the  Archduke 
Maximilian.  According  to  the  custom  of  the 
time,  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  Maximilian's  substi 
tute,'  slept  with  the  princess.  They  were  both  in 
complete  dress,  separated  by  a  naked  sword,  and 
attended  by  four  armed  guards.  Marie  was 
adored  by  her  subjects  for  her  gentleness  and  her 
many  other  virtues. 

Maximilian  was  son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick 
the  Third,  and  is  the  same  person  mentioned 
afterwards  in  the  poem  of  Nuremberg  as  the 
Kaiser  Maximilian,  and  the  hero  of  Pfinzing  s 
poem  of  Teuerdank.  Having  been  imprisoned  by 
the  revolted  burghers  of  Bruges,  they  refused  to 
release  him,  till  he  consented  to  kneel  in  the  pub 
lic  square,  and  to  swear  on  the  Holy  Evangelists 
and  the  body  of  Saint  Donatus,  that  he  would 
not  take  vengeance  upon  them  for  their  rebellion. 

Page  65.  Tfie  bloody  battle  of  the  Spiers  of 
Gold. 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in  Flemish 
history,  was  fought  under  the  walls  of  Courtray 
on  the  llth  of  July,  1303,  between  the  French  and 
the  Flemings,  the  former  commanded  by  Kobert 
Comte  d'Artois,  and  the  latter  by  ^uillaume  de 
Juliers  and  Jean,  Comte  de  Namur.  The  I  rench 
army  was  completely  routed,  with  a  1< 
twenty  thousand  infantry  and  seven  thousand 
cavalry;  among  whom  were  sixty-three  princes, 
dukes  and  counts,  seven  hundred  lords-banneret, 
and  eleven  hundred  noblemen.  The  flower  of  the 
French  nobility  perished  on  that  day  ;  to  which 
history  has  given  the  name  of  the  Journte  des 
Eperons  a"  Or,  from  the  great  number  of  golden 
spurs  found  on  the  field  of  battle.  Seven  hun 
dred  of  them  were  hung  up  as  a  trophy  in  tl 
church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Courtray ;  and,  as  the 
\ 


Page  65.     Saw  the  fight  of  Zfinncwater. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were  digging 
a  canal  at  Minuewater,  to  bring  the  waters  of  the 
Lys  from  Deynze  to  their  city,  they  were  attacked 
and  routed  by  the  cilizens'of  Ghent,  whose  com 
merce  would  have  been  much  injured  by  the  canal, 
They  were  led  by  Jean  Lyons,  captain  of  a  mili 
tary  company  at  Ghent,  called  the  Chaperons 
Blancs.  He  had  great  sway  over  the  turbulent 
populace,  who,  in  those  prosperous  times  of  the 
city,  gained  an  easy  livelihood  by  laboring  two  or 
three  days  in  the  week,  and  had  the  remaining 
four  or  five  to  devote  to  public  affairs.  The  fight 
at  Minnewater  was  followed  by  open  rebellion 
against  Louis  de  Maele,  the  Count  of  Flanders 
and  Protector  of  Bruges.  His  superb  chateau  of 
Woudelghem  was  pillaged  and  burnt;  and  the 
insurgents  forced  the  gates  of  Bruges,  and  entered 
in  triumph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their  head. 
A  few  days  afterwards  he  died  suddenly,  perhaps 
by  poison. 

Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a  check  at 
the  village  of  Nevele ;  and  two  hundred  of  them 
perished  in  the  church,  which  was  burned  by  the 
Count's  orders.  One  of  the  chiefs,  Jean  de  Lan- 
noy,  took  refuge  in  the  belfry.  From  the  summit 
of  "the  tower  he  held  forth  his  purse  filled  with 
gold,  and  begged  for  deliverance.  It  was  in  vain. 
His  enemies  cried  to  him  from  below  to  save  him 
self  as  best  he  might ;  and,  half  suffocated  with 
smoke  and  flame,  he  threw  himself  from  the 
tower  and  perished  at  their  feet.  Peace  was 
soon  afterwards  established,  and  the  Count  re 
tired  to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  65.     The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Golden  Dragon,  taken  from  the  church  of 
St.  Sophia,  at  Constantinople,  in  one  of  the 
Crusades,  and  placed  on  the  belfry  of  Bruges,  was 
afterwards  transported  to  Ghent  by  Philip  van 
Artevelde,  and  still  adorns  the  belfry  of  that 
city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at  Ghent  is 
"  Mynen  naer/t  is  Roland  ;  als  ik  kltp  is  er  brand, 
and  als  ik  Imj  is  er  victorie  in  Jut  land."  My 
name  is  Roland  ;  when  I  toll  there  is  fire,  and 
when  I  ring  there  is  victory  in  the  land. 

Page  66.  That  their  great  imperial  city 
stretched  its  hand  throw/ft  every  dime. 

An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs 
thus : — 

•'Ifilrnberg'x  Hand 
Geht  (lurch  alle  Land." 

Nuremberg's  hand 

Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  66.  Sat  the  poet  Melchior  ninging  Kaiser 
Maximilian's  praise. 

Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most  celebrat 
ed  German  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Tho 
hero  of  his  Teuerdank  was  the  reigning  emperor, 
Maximilian;  and  the  pot-m  was  to  the  Germans 
of  ttiat  day  what  the  Orlando  Fvrioto  was  to  the 
Italians.  Maximilian  is  mentioned  before,  iu  the 
Belfry  of  Bruges.  See  page  77. 

Page  66.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Scbald  sleeps 
enshrined  his  holyduxt. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church  which 
bears  his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art 
in  Nuremberg.  It  is  of  bronze,  and  was  cast  by 
Peter  Vischer  and  his  sons,  who  lal>ored  upon  r 
thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned  with  nearly  < 
hundred  figures,  among  which  those  of  the  Twelve 
Apostles  are  conspicuous  for  size  and  beauty. 


338 


NOTES. 


Page  66.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence 
stands  a  pix  of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the 
sacrament,  is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft.  It  is 
an  exquisite  piece  of  sculpture  in  white  stone,  and 
rises  to  the  height  of  sixty-four  feet.  It  stands 
in  the  choir,  whose  richly  painted  windows  cover 
it  with  varied  colors. 

Page  67.      Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters. 

The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the 
original  corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans 
Sachs,  the  cobbler  of  Nuremberg,  though  not  one 
of  the  original  Twelve,  was  the  most  renowned  of 
the  Mastersingers,  as  well  as  the  most  voluminous. 
He  flourished  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  left 
behind  him  thirty-four  folio  volumes  of  manu 
script,  containing  two  hundred  and  eight  plays, 
one  thousand  and  seven  hundred  comic  tales,  and 
between  four  and  five  thousand  lyric  poems. 

Page  67.     As  in  Adam  Puschman's  song. 
Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of 
Hans  Sachs,  describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a 
vision : — 

"  An  old  man, 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like, 
Who  had,  in  sooth,  a  great  beard, 
And  read  in  a  fair,  great  book, 
Beautiful  with  golden  clasps." 

Page  69.     The  Occultation  of  Orion. 

Astronomically  speaking,  this  title  is  incorrect ; 
as  I  apply  to  a  constellation  what  can  properly  be 
applied  to  some  of  its  stars  only.  But  my  obser 
vation  is  made  from  the  hill  of  song,  and  not  from 
that  of  science ;  and  will,  I  trust,  be  found  suffi 
ciently  accurate  for  the  present  purpose. 

Page  71.  Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once 
caught  the  bolts  of  the  thunder. 

"A  delegation  of  warriors  from  the  Delaware 
tribe  having  visited  the  governor  of  Virginia, 
during  the  Revolution,  on  matters  of  business, 
after  these  had  been  discussed  and  settled  in 
council,  the  governor  asked  them  some  questions 
relative  to  their  country,  and,  among  others,  what 
they  knew  or  had  heard  of  the  animal  whose 
bones  were  found  at  the  Saltlicks  on  the  Ohio. 
Their  chief  speaker  immediately  put  himself  into 
an  attitude  of  oratory,  and  with  a  pomp  suited 
to  what  he  conceived  the  elevation  of  his  subject, 
informed  him  that  it  was  a  tradition  handed 
down  from  their  fathers.  '  that  in  ancient  times  a 
herd  of  these  tremendous  animals  came  to  the 
Big-bone  licks,  and  began  an  universal  destruc 
tion  of  the  bear,  deer,  elks,  buffaloes,  and  other 
animals  which  had  been  created  for  the  use  of  the 
Indians :  that  the  Great  Man  above,  looking 
down  and  seeing  this,  was  so  enraged  that  he 
seized  his  lightning,  descended  on  the  earth,  seated 
himself  on  a  neighboring  mountain,  on  a  rock  of 
which  his  seat  and  the  print  of  his  feet  are  still 
to  be  seen,  and  hurled  his  bolts  among  them  till 
the  whole  were  slaughtered,  except  the  big  bull, 
who,  presenting  his  forehead  to  the  shafts,  shook 
them  off  as  they  fell ;  but  missing  one  at  length, 
it  wounded  him  in  the  side ;  whereon,  springing 
round,  he  bounded  over  the  Ohio,  over  the 
Wabash,  the  Illinois,  and  finally  over  the  great 
lakes,  where  he  is  living  at  this  day . '"—JEFFER 
SON'S  Notes  on  Virginia,  Query  VI. 

Page  73.      Walter  von  der  Vogelweid. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  or  Bird -Meadow,  was 
one  of  the  principal  Minnesingers  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  He  triumphed  over  Heinrich  von  Of ter- 
dingen  in  that  poetic  contest  at  Wartburg  Castle, 
known  in  literary  history  as  the  War  of  Wart- 
burg. 


Page  74.     Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  pre-eminene  the 
monarch  of  farmers.  According  to  the  German 
tradition,  in  seasons  of  great  abundance,  his 
spirit  crosses  the  Rhine  on  a  golden  bridge  at 
Bingen,  and  blesses  the  cornfields  and  the  vine 
yards.  During  his  lifetime,  he  did  not  disdain, 
says  Montesquieu,  "to  sell  the  eggs  from  the  farm 
yards  of  his  domains,  and  the  superfluous  vege 
tables  of  his  gardens ;  while  he  distributed  among 
his  people  the  wealth  of  the  Lombards  and  the 
immense  treasures  of  the  Huns." 

Page  103. 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 

Is  swung  into  its  place. 

I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  pas 
sage,  by  stating,  that  sometimes,  though  not 
usually,  vessels  are  launched  fully  sparred  and 
rigged.  I  have  availed  myself  of  the  exception 
as  better  suited  to  my  purposes  than  the  general 
rule ;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is  neither  a 
blunder  nor  a  poetic  license.  On  this  subject  a 
friend  in  Portland,  Maine,  writes  me  thus  : 

"In  this  State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  in  New 
York,  ships  are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks 
in  order  to  save  time,  or  to  make  a  show.  There 
was  a  fine,  large  ship  launched  last  summer  at 
Ellsworth,  fully  sparred  and  rigged.  Some  years 
ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with  her  rigging, 
spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed  the  next 
day,  and — was  never  heard  of  again  !  I  hope  this 
will  not  be  the  fate  of  your  poem  !  " 

Page  105.     Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert. 

"  When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were 
near  enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly  sit 
ting  in  the  stern,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  On  the 
9th  of  September  he  was  seen  for  the  last  time, 
and  was  heard  by  the  people  of  the  Hind  to  say, 
'  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by  land.'  In 
the  following  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  sud 
denly  disappeared.  The  people  in  the  other  ves 
sel  kept  a  good  lookout  for  him  during  the  re 
mainder  of  the  voyage.  On  the  22d  of  Septem 
ber  they  arrived,  through  much  tempest  and 
peril,  at  Falmouth.  But  nothing  more  was  seen 
or  heard  of  the  Admiral." — BELKNAP'S  American 
Biography,  I.  203. 

Page  111.     The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cnille. 
Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful  poem,  is  to 
!  the  South  of  France  what  Burns  is  to  the  South 
j  of  Scotland, — the   representative  of  the  heart  of 
!  the  people, — one  of   those    happy    bards  who   are 
i  born  with  their   mouths  full   of  birds    (la  bouco 
\  plena  tfaouzelous  ).     He  has  written  his  own  bi 
ography  in  a  poetic  form,  and  the  simple  nar^a- 
|  tive  of  his  poverty,  his  struggles,  and  his  triumphs 
;  is  very  touching.     He  still  lives  at  A  gen,  on  the 
Garonne ;  and  long  may  he   live  there  to  delight 
j  his  native  land  with   native  songs  ! 

The  following    description   of  his  person  and 

way  of  life  is  taken    from   the  graphic   pages  of 

:  "Beam  and  the    Pyrenees,"    by   Louisa  Stuart 

Costello,  whose  charming  pen  has  done  so  much 

j  to  illustrate  the  French  provinces  and  their  liter- 

i  ature. 

"At  the  entrance  of  the  promenade,  Du  Gra- 
vier,  is  a  row  of  small  houses, — some  cafes,  other 
shops,  the  indication  of  which  is  a  painted  cloth 
placed  across  the  way,  with  the  owner's  name  in 
bright  gold  letters,  in  the  manner  of  the  arcades 
in  the  streets,  and  their  announcements.  One  of 
the  most  glaring  of  these  was,  we  observed,  a 
!  bright  blue  flag,  bordered  with  gold  ;  on  which,  in 
large  gold  letters,  appeared  the  name  of  '  Jafmin, 
Coiffeur.'  We  entered,  and  were  welcomed  by  a 


NOTES. 


339 


smiling,  dark-eyed  woman,  who  informed  us  that 
her  husband  was  busy  at  that  moment  dressing  a 
customer's  hair,  but  he  was  desirous  to  receive 
us,  and  begged  we  would  walk  into  his  parlor  at 
the  back  of  the  shop. 

"  She  exhibited  to  us  a  laurel  crown  of  gold  of 
delicate  workmanship,  sent  from  the  city  of 
Clemence  Isaure,  Toulouse,  to  the  poet ;  who  will 
probably  one  day  take  his  place  in  the  capitoul. 
Next  came  a  golden  cup,  with  an  inscription  in 
his  honor,  given  by  the  citizens  of  Anch  ;  a  gold 
watch,  chain,  and  seals,  sent  by  the  King,  Louis 
Philippe  ;  an  emerald  ring,  worn  and  presented 
by  the  lamented  Duke  of  Orleans  ;  a  pearl  pin  by 
the  graceful  Duchess,  who,  on  the  poet's  visit  to 
Paris  accompanied  by  his  son,  received  him  in  the 
words  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Henri  Quatre : 

'  Brabes  Gaseous ! 

A  moun  amou  per  bous  aou  dibes  creyre ; 
Benes  !  benes  !  ey  plaz6  de  bous  beyre  ; 
Aproucha  bous ! ' 

A  fine  service  of  linen,  the  offering  of  the  town 
of  Pau,  after  its  citizens  had  given  fetes  in  his 
honor,  and  loaded  him  with  caresses  and  praises  ; 
and  knickknacks  and  jewels  of  all  descriptions 
offered  to  him  by  lady-ambassadresses,  and  -eat 
lords;  English  'misses'  and  'miladis,'  and 
French,  and  foreigners  of  all  nations,  who  did  or 
did  not  understand  Gascon. 

"All  this,  though  startling,  was  not  convinc 
ing  ;  Jasmin,  the  barber,  might  only  be  a  fashion, 
&  furore,  a  caprice,  after  all ;  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  knew  how  to  get  up  a  scene  well.  When 
we  had  become  nearly  tired  of  looking  over  these 
tributes  to  his  genius,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
poet  himself  appeared.  His  manner  was  free  and 
unembarrassed,  well-bred,  and  lively  ;  he  received 
our  compliments  naturally,  and  like  one  accus 
tomed  to  homage  ;  said  he  was  ill,  and  unfortu 
nately  too  hoarse  to  read  anything  to  us,  or  should 
have  been  delighted  to  do  so.  He  spoke  with  a 
broad  Gascon  accent,  and  very  rapidly  and  elo 
quently  ;  ran  over  the  story  of  his  successes  ;  told 
us  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a  beggar,  and 
all  his  family  very  poor  ;  that  he  was  now  as  rich 
as  he  wished  to  be  ;  his  son  placed  in  a  good  posi 
tion  at  Nantes  ;  then  showed  us  his  son's  picture, 
and  spoke  of  his  disposition  ;  to  which  his  brisk 
little  wife  added,  that,  though  no  fool,  he  had  not 
his  father's  genius,  to  which  truth  Jasmin  as 
sented  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  told  him  of  having 
seen  mention  made  of  him  in  an  English  review  ; 
which  he  said  had  been  sent  him  by  Lord  Dur 
ham,  who  had  paid  him  a  visit ;  and  I  then 
spoke  of  '  Mecal  mouri '  as  known  to  me.  This 
was  enough  to  make  him  forget  his  hoarseness  and 
every  other  evil :  it  would  never  do  for  me  to 
imagine  that  that  little  song  was  his  best  com 
position  ;  it  was  merely  his  first ;  he  must 
try  to  read  to  me  a  little  of 'L'Abuglo,' — a  few 
verses  of  'Francouneto.'  'You  will  be  charmed,' 
said  he  ;  '  but  if  I  were  well,  and  you  would  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  some  time, 
if  you  were  not  merely  running  through  Agen,  I 
would  kill  you  with  weeping, — I  would  make  you 
die  with  distress  for  my  poor  Margarido, —  my 
pretty  Francouneto  ! ' 

"  He  caught  up  two  copies  of  his  book  from  a 
pile  lying  on  the  table,  and  making  us  sit  close  to 
him,  he  pointed  out  the  French  translation  on 
one  side,  which  he  told  us  to  follow  while  he  read 
in  Gascon.  He  began  in  a  rich  soft  voice,  and  as 
he  advanced,  the  surprise  of  Hamlet  on  hearing 
the  player-king  recite  the  disasters  of  Hecuba, 
was  but  a  type  of  ours,  to  find  ourselves  carried 
away  by  the  spell  of  his  enthusiasm.  His  eyes 
swam  in  tears  ;  he  became  pale  and  red  ;  he  trem 
bled  ;  he  recovered  himself ;  his  face  was  now 
joyous,  now  exulting,  gay.  jocose  ;  in  fact  he  was 


twenty  actors  in  one  ;  he  rang  the  changes  from 
Rachel  to  Bouffe  ;  and  he  finished  by  delighting 
us,  besides  beguiling  us  of  our  tears,  and  over 
whelming  us  with  astonishment. 

"  He  would  have  been  a  treasure  on  the  stage ; 
for  he  is  still,  though  his  first  youth  is  past,  re 
markably  good-looking  and  striking  ;  with  black, 
sparkling  eyes,  of  intense  expression ;  a  fine 
ruddy  complexion ;  a  countenance  of  wondrous 
mobility ;  a  good  figure ;  and  action  full  of 
fire  and  grace ;  he  has  handsome  hands,  which 
he  uses  with  infinite  effect :  and  on  the  whole,  he 
is  the  best  actor  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw.  I  could 
now  quite  understand  what  a  troubadour  or  jon- 
t/lfur  might  be,  and  I  look  upon  Jasmin  as  a  re 
vived  specimen  of  that  extinct  race.  Such  as  he 
is  might  have  been  Gaucelm  Faidit,  of  Avignon, 
the  friend  of  Cceur  de  Lion,  who  lamented  the 
death  of  the  hero  in  such  moving  strains  ;  such 
might  have  been  Bernard  de  Ventadour,  who 
sang  the  praises  of  Queen  Elinore's  beauty  ;  such 
Geoffrey  Rudel,  of  Blaye,  on  his  own  Garonne  ; 
such  the  wild  Vidal :  certain  it  is  that  none  of 
these  troubadours  of  old  could  more  move,  by 
their  singing  or  reciting,  than  Jasmin,  in  whom 
all  their  long-smothered  fire  and  traditional  magic 
seems  re-illumined. 

"  We  found  we  had  stayed  hours  instead  of 
minutes  with  the  poet ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of 
any  apology, — only  regretted  that  his  voice  was  so 
out  of  tune,  in  consequence  of  a  violent  cold,  under 
which  he  was  really  laboring,  and  hoped  to  see  us 
again.  He  told  us  our  countrywomen  of  Pau, 
had  laden  him  with  kindness  and  attention,  and 
spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  of  cer 
tain  '  misses,'  that  I  feared  his  little  wife  would 
feel  somewhat  piqued  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she 
stood  by,  smiling  and  happy,  and  enjoying  the 
stories  of  his  triumphs.  I  remarked  that  he  had 
restored  the  poetry  of  the  troubadours  ;  asked  him 
if  he  knew  their  songs ;  and  said  he  was  worthy 
to  stand  at  their  head.  'I  am  indeed,  a  trouba 
dour,'  said  he  with  energy  ;  '  but  I  am  far  beyond 
them  all :  they  were  but  beginners  ;  they  never 
composed  a  poem  like  my  Francouneto !  there  are 
no  poets  in  France  now, — there  cannot  be  ;  the 
language  does  not  admit  of  it ;  where  is  the  fire, 
the  spirit,  the  expression,  the  tenderness,  the 
force  of  the  Gascon?  French  is  but  the  ladder 
to  reach  to  the  first  floor  of  Gascon, — how  can 
you  get  up  to  a  height  except  by  a  ladder  ! ' 


' '  I  returned  by  Agen,  after  an  ibsence  in  the 
Pyrenees  of  some  months,  and  rei.ewed  my  ac 
quaintance  with  Jasmin  and  his  dark-eyed  wife. 
I  did  not  expect  that  I  should  be  recognized  ;  but 
the  moment  I  entered  the  little  shop  I  was  hailed 
as  an  old  friend.  '  Ah  !  '  cried  Jasmin,  'cutin  la 
voila  encore  ! '  I  could  not  but  be  flattered  by  thia 
recollection,  but  soon  found  it  was  less  on  'my  own 
account  that  I  was  thus  welcomed,  than  because 
a  circumstance  had  occurred  to  the  poet  which  he 
thought  I  conld  perhaps  explain.  He  produced 
several  French  newspapers,  in  which  he  pointed 
out  to  me  an  article  headed  'Jasmin  ii  Londres  ;* 
being  a  translation  of  certain  notices  of  himself, 
which  had  appeared  in  a  leading  English  literary 
journal.  He  had,  he  said,  been  informed  of  the 
honor  done  him  by  numerous  friends,  and  asmm-d 
me  his  fame  had  been  much  tipread  by  this 
means  ;  and  he  was  so  delighted  on  the  occasion, 
that  he  had  resolved  to  learn  English,  in  order  that 
he  might  judge  of  the  translations  from  his  works, 
which,  he  had  been  told,  were  well  done.  I  en 
joyed  his  surprise,  while  I  informed  him  that  I 
knew  who  was  the  reviewer  and  translator  ;  and 
explained  the  reason  for  the  verses  piving  pleas 
ure  in  an  English  dress  to  be  the  superior  simplici 
ty  of  the  English  language  over  modem  French, 
for  which  he  has  a  great  contempt,  as  unfitted  for 


340 


NOTES. 


lyrical  composition.  He  inquired  of  me  respect 
ing  Burns,  to  whom  he  had  been  likened ;  and 
begged  me  to  tell  him  something  of  Moore.  The 
delight  of  himself  and  his  wife  was  amusing,  at 
having  discovered  a  secret  which  had  puzzled 
them  so  long. 

u  He  had  a  thousand  things  to  tell  me  ;  in  par 
ticular,  that  he  had  only  the  day  before  received 
a  letter  from  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  informing  ; 
him  that  she  had  ordered  a  medal  of  her  late  hus-  j 
band  to  be  struck,  the  first  of  which  would  be  j 
sent  to  him:    she   also   announced  to  him 'the 
agreeable  news  of  the  king  having  granted  him  a 
pension  of  a  thousand  francs.     He  smiled  and 
wept  by  turns,  as  he  told  us  all  this ;  and  declared, 
much  as  he  was  elated  at  the  possession  of  a  sum 
which  made  him  a  rich  man  for  life,  the  kindness 
of  the  Duchess  gratified  him  even  more. 

' '  He  then  made  us  sit  down  while  he  read  us 
two  new  poems  ;  both  charming,  and  full  of  grace 
and  naivete  ;  and  one  very  affecting,  being  an  ad 
dress  to  the  king,  alluding  to  the  death  of  his  son. 
As  he  read,  his  wife  stood  by,  and  fearing  we  did 
not  quite  comprehend  his  language,  she  made  a 
remark  to  that  effect :  to  which  he  answered  im 
patiently,  '  Nonsense, — don't  you  see  they  are  in 
tears  V  '  This  was  unanswerable  ;  and  we  were 
allowed  to  hear  the  poem  to  the  end ;  and  I  cer 
tainly  never  listened  to  anything  more  feelingly 
and  energetically  delivered. 

"We  had  much  conversation,  for  he  was 
anxious  to  detain  us,  and,  in  the  course  of  it,  he 
told  me  he  had  been  by  some  accused  of  vanity. 
1 0,'  he  rejoined,  '  what  would  you  have.  I  am  a 
child  of  nature,  and  cannot  conceal  my  feelings  ; 
the  only  difference  between  me  and  a  man  of  re 
finement  is,  that  he  knows  how  to  conceal  his  vani 
ty  and  exultation  at  success,  which  I  let  everybody 
see.'" — Beam  and  the  Pyrenees,  I.  869,  et  seq. 

Page  114.     A  Christmas  Carol. 

The  following  description  of  Christmas  in  Bur 
gundy  is  from  M.  Fertiault's  Coup  d*(Eil  sur  les 
Noels  en  Bourgogne,  prefixed  to  the  Paris  edition 
of  Les  Noeh  Bourguignons  de  Bernard  de  la 
Monnoye  (Gui  Barozai),  1842. 

"Every  year  at  the  approach  of  Advent,  people 
refresh  their  memories,  clear  their  throats,  and 
begin  preluding,  in  the  long  evenings  by  the  fire 
side,  those  carols  whose  invariable  and  eternal 
theme  is  the  coming  of  the  Messiah.  They  take 
from  old  closets  pamphlets,  little  collections  be 
grimed  with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the  press, 
and  sometimes  the  pen,  has  consigned  these 
songs  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  first  Sunday  of  Advent 
sounds,  they  gossip,  they  gad  about,  they  sit  to 
gether  by  the  fireside,  sometimes  at  one  house, 
sometimes  at  another,  taking  turns  in  paying  for 
the  chestnuts  and  white  wine,  but  singing  with 
one  common  voice  the  grotesque  praises  of  the 
Little  Jesiai.  There  are  very  few  villages  even, 
which,  during  all  the  evenings  of  Advent,  do  not 
hear  some  of  these  curious  canticles  shouted  in 
their  streets,  to  the  nasal  drone  of  bagpipes.  In 
this  case  the  minstrel  comes  as  a  reinforcement 
to  the  singers  at  the  fireside ;  he  brings  and  adds 
his  dose  of  joy  (spontaneous  or  mercenary,  it 
matters  little  which)  to  the  joy  which  breathes 
around  the  hearth-stone ;  and  when  the  voices 
vibrate  and  resound,  one  voice  more  is  always 
welcome.  There,  it  is  not  the  purity  of  the  notes 
which  makes  the  concert,  but  the  quantity, — non 
qualitas,  sed  quantitas  ;  then  (to  finish  at  once 
with  the  minstrel),  when  the  Saviour  has  at  length 
been  born  in  the  manger,  and  the  beautiful 
Christmas  Eve  is  passed,  the  rustic  piper  makes 
his  round  among  the  houses,  where  every  one 
compliments  and  thanks  him,  and,  moreover, 
gives  him  in  small  coin  the  price  of  the  shrill 
notes  with  which  he  has  enlivened  the  evening 
entertainments. 


"More  or  less  until  Christmas  Eve,  all  goes  on 
in  this  way  among  our  devout  singers,  with  the 
difference  of  some  gallons  of  wine  or  some  hun 
dreds  of  chestnuts.  But  this  famous  eve  once 
come,  the  scale  is  pitched  upon  a  higher  key  ;  the 
closing  evening  must  be  a  memorable  one.  The 
toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall ;  then  comes  the  hour 
of  supper,  admonishing  divers  appetites;  and 
groups,  as  numerous  as  possible,  are  formed  to 
take  together  this  comfortable  evening  repast. 
The  supper  finished,  a  circle  gathers  around  the 
hearth,  which  is  arranged  and  set  in  order  this 
evening  after  a  particular  fashion,  and  which  at 
a  later  hour  of  the  night  is  to  become  the  object 
of  special  interest  to  the  children.  On  the  burn 
ing  brands  an  enormous  log  has  been  placed. 
This  log  assuredly  does  not  change  its  nature,  but 
it  changes  its  name  during  this  evening ;  it  is 
called  the  Suchc  (the  Yule-log).  '  Look  you,'  say 
they  to  the  children,  '  if  you  are  good  this  even 
ing,  Noel'  (for  with  children  one  must  always 
personify)  '  will  rain  down  sugar-plums  in  the 
night.'  And  the  children  sit  demurely,  keeping 
as  quiet  as  their  turbulent  little  natures  will 
permit.  The  groups  of  older  persons,  not  always 
as  orderly  as  the  children,  seize  this  good  oppor 
tunity  to  surrender  themselves  with  merry  hearts 
and  boisterous  voices  to  the  chanted  worship  of 
the  miraculous  NoeL  For  this  final  solemnity, 
they  have  kept  the  most  powerful,  the  most  en 
thusiastic,  the  most  electrifying  carols.  Noel ! 
Noel !  Noel !  This  magic  word  resounds  on  all 
sides ;  it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is  served  up  with 
every  course.  Of  the  thousands  of  canticle* 
which  are  heard  on  this  famous  eve,  ninety-nine 
in  a  hundred  begin  and  end  with  this  word  ;  which 
is,  one  may  say,  their  Alpha  and  Omega,  their 
crown  and  footstool.  This  last  evening,  the 
merry-making  is  prolonged.  Instead  of  retiring 
at  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  as  is  generally  done  on 
all  the  preceding  evenings,  they  wait  for  the 
stroke  of  midnight :  this  word  sufficiently  pro 
claims  to  what  ceremony  they  are  going  to  repair. 
For  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells 
have  been  calling  the  faithful  with  a  triple-bob- 
major  ;  and  each  one,  furnished  with  a  little  taper 
streaked  with  various  colors  (the  Christmas  Can 
dle),  goes  through  the  crowded  streets,  where  the 
lanterns  are  dancing  like  Will-o'-the-Wisps,  at 
the  impatient  summons  of  the  multitudinous 
chimes.  It  is  the  Midnight  Mass.  Once  inside 
the  church,  they  hear  with  more  or  less  piety  the 
Mass,  emblematic  of  the  coming  of  the  Messiah. 
Then  in  tumult  and  great  haste  they  return  home 
ward,  always  in  numerous  groups ;  they  salute 
the  Yule-log ;  they  pay  homage  to  the  hearth ; 
they  sit  down  at  table  ;  and,  amid  songs  which 
reverberate  louder  than  ever,  make  this  meal  of 
after-Christmas,  so  long  looked  for,  so  cherished, 
so  joyous,  so  noisy,  and  which  it  has  been  thought 
fit  to  call,  we  hardly  know  why,  Roittgnon.  The 
supper  eaten  at  nightfall  is  no  impediment,  as 
you  may  imagine,  to  the  appetite's  returning ; 
above  all,  if  the  going  to  and  from  church  has 
made  the  devout  eaters  feel  some  littje  shafts  of 
the  sharp  and  biting  north-wind  Rossignon  then 
goes  on  merrily, — sometimes  far  into  the  morning 
hours  ;  but,  nevertheless,  gradually  throats  grow 
hoarse,  stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log  burna 
out,  and  at  last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one, 
as  best  he  may,  regains  his  domicile  and  his  bed, 
and  puts  with  himself  between  the  sheets  the 
material  for  a  good  sore-throat,  or  a  good  indiges 
tion,  for  the  morrow.  Previous  to  this,  care  has 
been  taken  to  place  in  the  slippers,  or  wooden 
shoes  of  the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which 
shall  be  for  them,  on  their  waking,  the  welcome 
fruits  of  the  Christmas  log." 

In  the  Glossary,  the  Snche,  or  Yule-log,  is  thus 
defined  : — 

"This  is  a  huge  log,  which  is  placed  on  the  fire 


NOTES. 


341 


on  Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in  Burgundy  is 
called,  on  this  account,  lai  Kuchf.  de  Xori.  Then 
the  father  of  the  family,  particularly  among  the 
middle  classes,  sings  solemnly  Christmas  carols 
with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest  of  whom 
he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that  the  Yule- 
log  nifty  bear  him  some  sugar-plums.  Meanwhile, 
little  parcel  of  them  are  placed  under  each  end  of 
the  log,  and  the  children  come  and  pick  them  up, 
believing,  in  good  faith,  that  the  great  log  has 
borne  them." 

Page  115.  THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA.  This 
Indian  Edda — if  I  may  so  call  it — is  founded  on 
a  tradition  prevalent  among  the  North  American 
Indians,  of  a  personage  of  miraculous  birth,  who 
was  sent  among  them  to  clear  their  rivers,  forests, 
and  fishing-grounds,  and  to  teach  them  the  arts 
of  peace.  He  was  known  among  different  tribes 
by  the  several  names  of  Michabou,  Chiabo,  Mana- 
bozo,  Tarenyawagon,  and  Hiawatha.  Mr.  School- 
craft  gives  an  account  of  him  in  his  Alffiv  Re- 
searchex.  Vol.  I.  p.  13-4 ;  and  in  his  Hixtory,  Con 
dition,  and  Prospects  of  the  Indian  Tribes  of  the 
United  /States,  Part  III.  p.  314,  maybe  found  the 
Iroquois  form  of  the  tradition,  derived  from  the 
verbal  narrations  of  an  Onomiaga  chief. 

Into  this  old  tradition  I  have  woven  other 
curious  Indian  legends,  drawn  chiefly  from  the 
various  and  valuable  writings  of  Mr.  Schoolcrai't, 
to  whom  the  literary  world  is  greatly  indebted 
for  his  indefatigable  zeal  in  rescuing  from  obliv 
ion  so  much  of  the  legendary  lore  of  the  Indians. 

The  scene  of  the  poem  is  among  the  Ojibways 
on  the  southern  shore  of  Lake  Superior,  in  the 
region  between  the  Pictured  Rocks  and  the  Grand 
Sable. 

VOCABULARY. 

Adjidau'mo,  the  reel  squirrel. 

Atideek',  the  reindeer. 

Ahkose'win,  fever. 

Ahmeek',  the  beaver. 

Algon'quin,  Ojibway. 

Annomen'kee.  the  thunder. 

Apuk'wa,  a  bulrush. 

Baim-wa'wa,  the  sound  of  the  thunder. 

Bemah'gnt.  the  grapevine. 

Be'na,  the  pheasant. 

Big-Sea-Water,  Lake  Superior. 

Bukada'win,  famine. 

Cheeinaun',  a  birch  canoe. 

Chetowaik',  the  plover. 

Chibia'bos,  a  musician  ;  friend  of  Hiawatha  ;  ruler  in 

the  Land  of  Spirits. 
Dahin'da,  the  bullfrog. 

Dush-kwo-ne'she,  or  Kwo-nc'she,  the  dragon-fly. 
Esa,  n/utme  upon  you. 
Ewa-yea',  lullaby. 
Ghee'zis,  the  sun. 

Gitche  Gu'mce,  the  Big  Sea-  Water,  Lake  Superior. 
Gitehe  Man'ito,  the  Great  Spirit,  the  Master  of  Life. 
Gushkewau',  the  darkness. 
Hiawa'tha,  the  Wise  Man,  the  Teacher ;  son  of  Mudje- 

keewis,  the  West- Wind,  and   Uenonah,  daughter  of] 

Nokomis. 

la'goo,  a  great  boaster  and  story-teller. 
Inin'ewug,  men,  or  pawns  in  the  Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Ishkoodah',  fire ;  a  comet. 
Jee'bi,  a  yhost,  a  spirit 
Joss'akeed,  a  prophet. 
Kabibonok'ka,  the  North- Wind. 
Kagh,  the  hedge-hog. 
Ka'go,  do  not. 
Kahgahgee',  the  raven. 
Kaw,  no. 

Kaween',  no  indeed. 
Kayoshk',  the  sea-gull. 
Kde'go.  a  fish. 

Keeway'din.  the  Northwest-Wind,  the  Home  Wind. 
Kena'beek,  a  serpent. 
Keneu',  the  great  war-eagle. 
Keno'zha,  the  pickerel. 
Ko'ko-ko'ho,  the  owl. 
Kuntasoo',  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 
Kwa'sind,  the  Strong  Man. 
Kwo-ne'she,  or  Dush-kwo-ne'she,  the  dragon-fly. 


Mahnahbo'zee,  the  mean. 

Muting,  the  loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see,  loon-hearted,  brave. 

Mahnomo'nee,  wi/d  rice. 

Ma'nia,  theiooodpecker. 

Maskeno'zha,  the  pike 

Me'da,  a  medicine  man. 

Meenah'ga,  the  blueberry. 

Megissog'won,  the  great  Pearl-Feather,  a  magician,  and 

the  Manito  of  Wealth. 
Meshinau'wa,  a  pipe-bearer. 
Minjekah'wun,  Hiawatha's  mittens. 
Minneha'ha,  Laughing  Water ;  a  water-fan  on  a  stream 

running  into  the  Mississippi,  between.  Fort  Knelling 

and  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony. 
Minneha'ha.  Laughing  Water;  wife  of  Hiawatha. 
Minne-wa'wa,  a  pleaxant  sound,  as  of  the  wind  in  the 

trees. 

Mishe-Mo'kwa,  the  Great  Bear. 
Mishe-Xah'ma,  the  Great  Sturgeon. 
Miskodei-d',  the  Spring-Beauty,  the  Claytonia  Yirginica. 
Monda'min.  Indian  corn. 
Moon  of  Bright  Nights,  April. 
Moon  of  Leaves,  May. 
Moon  of  Strawberries,  June. 
Moon  of  the  Falling  Leaves,  September. 
Moon  of  Snow-Shoes,  November. 
Mudjekee'wis,  the  West- Wind  ;  father  of  TTiaicatha. 
Mudway-ansh'ka,  sound  of  ivaves  on  a  shore. 
Mushkoda'sa,  the  grouse. 
Xah'ma,  the  sluryeon. 
Xah'ma-wusk,  spearmint. 

Na'gow  Wudj'oo,  the  Sand  Dunes  of  Lake  Superior. 
Nee-ba-naw'baigs,  water  spirits. 
Xonemoo'sha,  sweetheart. 
Xepah'win,  sleep. 

Xoko'mis.  a  grandmother ;  mother  of  Wenontih, 
Xo'sa,  mi/ father. 
Xush'ka,  look  .'  look  .' 
Odah'min,  the  strawberry. 
Okahah'wis,  the  fresh-water  herring. 
Ome'me.  the  pigeon. 
Ona'gon,  a  botrl. 
Onaway',  awake. 
Ope'chee,  the  robin. 
Osse'o,  Son  of  the  Evening  Star. 
Owais'sa,  the  bluebird. 
Owcenee',  wife  of  Osseo. 
Ozawa'beek,  a  round  piece  of  brass  or  copper  in  the 

Game  of  the  Howl. 
Pah-puk-kee'na,  the  grasshopper. 
Pau'gnk.  i/fath. 
Pan-puk-kee'wis,  the  handsome   Yenadizze,   the  Storm 

Fool. 

Pamva'ting,  Saut  Salute  Marie. 
Pe'boan,   Winter. 

Pem'ican,  meat  of  the  deer  or  buffalo  dried  and  pounded. 
Pczhekee',  the  bison. 
Pishnekuh',  the  brant. 
Pone'niah,  hereafter. 
Pugasaing',  Game  of  the  Howl. 
Puggawan'gun,  a  war-club. 

Puk-Wudj'ies,  little  wild  men  of  the  woods;  pygmlet. 
Sah-sah-je'wun,  rapids. 
Sah'wa,  the  perch. 
Segwun',  Spring. 
Sha'da,  the  pelican. 
Shahbo'niin,  the  gooseberry. 
Shah->hah,  long  ago. 
Shaugoda'ya,  a  coward. 
Shawgashee',  the  iraw-ftsh. 
Shawonda'i,ee,  the  South-Wind. 
Shaw-shaw,  the  fit-allow. 

Shcsh'ebwug,  ducks;  pieces  in  the  Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Shin'gebis,  the  diver  or  grebe. 
Showain'  ncnic'shin,  pity  me. 
Shuh-shuh'gah,  the  blue  heron. 
So:in-ge-ta'ha,  strong-hearted. 
Snbbeka'she,  the  spider. 
Sngge'ma,  the  mosquito. 
To'tcm,  familij  coat-of-arms. 
Ugh,  i/es. 

Ugnrlwash',Me  HUn-Jlsh. 
Unktnheo',  the  God  of  Water. 
Wabas'so.  the  rabbit ;  the  North. 
Wabc'no,  a  magician,  a  juggler. 
\Val)e'no-wuBk,  //arrow. 
Wii'bnn,  the  East-  Wind. 
Wa'bun  An'nung,  the  Star  of  the  East,  the   Morning 

Star. 

Wahono'win.  a  cry  of  lamentation. 
Wnh-wah-tay'see,  theflrt-flv. 
Wam'pum,  beads  of  shell. 


342 


NOTES. 


Waubewy'on,  a  white  skin  wrapper. 

Wa'wa,  the  wild-goose. 

Waw'beek,  a  rock. 

Waw-be-wa'wa,  the  white  goose. 

Wawonais'sa,  the  whtppoorwill. 

Way-muk-kwa'na,  the  caterpillar. 

Wen'digoes,  giants. 

Weno'nah,  Hiawatha's  mother,  daughter  of  Nokomis. 

Yenadiz'ze,  an  idler  and  gambler ;  an  Indian  dandy. 

Page  115.     In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha. 
This  valley,  now  called  Norman's  Kail,  is  in 
Albany  County,  New  York. 

Page  116.     On  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie. 

Mr.  Catlin,  in  his  Letters  and  Notes  on  the  Man<- 
ners,  Customs,  and  Condition  of  the  North  Amer 
ican  Indians,  Vol.  II.  p.  160,  gives  an  interesting 
account  of  the  Coteau  des  Prairies,  and  the  Bed 
Pipestone  Quarry.  He  says  : — 

"  Here  (according  to  their  traditions)  happened 
the  mysterious  birth  of  the  red  pipe,  which  has 
blown  its  fumes  of  peace  and  war  to  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  continent ;  which  has  visited  every 
warrior,  and  passed  through  its  reddened  stem 
the  irrevocable  oath  of  war  and  desolation.  And 
here,  also,  the  peace-breathing  calumet  was  born, 
and  fringed  with  the  eagle's  quills,  which  has 
shed  its  thrilling  fumes  over  the  land,  and  soothed 
the  fury  of  the  relentless  savage. 

•  "  The  Great  Spirit  at  an  ancient  period  here 
called  the  Indian  nations  together,  and,  standing 
on  the  precipice  of  the  red  pipe-stone  rock,  broke 
from  its  wall  a  piece,  and  made  a  huge  pipe  by 
turning  it  in  his  hand,  which  he  smoked  over 
them,  and  to  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  and 
the  West,  and  told  them  that  this  stone  was  red, 
— that  it  was  their  flesh, — that  they  must  use  it 
for  their  pipes  of  peace, — that  it  belonged  to  them 
all,  and  that  the  war-club  and  scalping-knif  e  must 
not  be  raised  on  its  ground.  At  the  last  whiff  of 
his  pipe  his  head  went  into  a  great  cloud,  and  the 
whole  surface  of  the  rock  for  several  miles  was 
melted  and  glazed  ;  two  great  ovens  were  opened 
beneath,  and  two  women  (guardian  spirits  of  the 
place)  entered  them  in  a  blaze  of  fire ;  and  they 
are  heard  there  yet  (Tso-mec-cos-tee  and  Tso-me- 
cos-te-won-dee),  answering  to  the  invocations  of 
the  high-priests  or  medicine-men,  who  consult 
them  when  they  are  visitors  to  this  sacred  place." 

Page  117.  Hark  you,  Hear  !  you  are  a  cow 
ard. 

This  anecdote  is  from  Heckewelder.  In  his  ac 
count  of  the  Indian  Nations,  he  describes  an  In 
dian  hunter  as  addressing  a  bear  in  nearly  these 
words.  "  I  was  present,"  he  says,  "at  the  deliv 
ery  of  this  curious  invective;  when  the  hunter 
had  despatched  the  bear,  I  asked  him  how  he 
thought  that  poor  animal  could  understand  what 
he  said  to  it.  '  O,'  said  he,  in  answer,  '  the  bear 
understood  me  very  well ;  did  you  not  observe 
how  ashamed  he  looked  while  I  was  upbraiding 
him?'" — Transactions  of  the  American  Philo 
sophical  Society,  Vol.  L  p.  240. 

Page  119.  Hush!  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear 
thee  ! 

Heckewelder,  in  a  letter  published  in  the 
Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical  So 
ciety,  Vol.  IV.  p.  2fiO,  speaks  of  this  tradition  as 
prevalent  among  the  Mohicans  and  Delawares. 

"Their  reports,"  he  says,  "run  thus:  that 
among  all  animals  that  had  been  formerly  in  this 
country,  this  was  the  most  ferocious  ;  that  it  was 
much  larger  than  the  largest  of  the  common 
bears,  and  remarkably  long-bodied  ;  all  over  (ex 
cept  a  spot  of  hair  on  its  back  of  a  white  color) 
naked 

"The  history  of  this  animal  used  to  be  a  sub 
ject  of  conversation  among  the  Indians,  especially 


when  in  the  woods  a-hunting.  I  have  also  heard 
bhem  say  to  their  children  when  crying  :  '  Hush ! 
the  naked  bear  will  hear  you,  be  upon  you,  and 
devour  you.'" 

Page  123.      Where  the  Falls  of  Mihnehaha,  etc. 

"The  scenery  about  Fort  Snelling  is  rich  in. 
beauty.  The  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  are  familiar 
to  travellers,  and  to  readers  of  Indian  sketches. 
Between  the  fort  and  these  falls  are  the  '  Little 
Falls,'  forty  feet  in  height,  on  a  stream  that  emp 
ties  into  the  Mississippi.  The  Indians  called  them 
Mine-hah-hah,  or  'laughing  waters.'" — MRS. 
EASTMAN'S  Dacotah,  or  Legends  of  the  Sioux, 
In  trod.,  p.  ii. 

Page  133.     Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo. 

A  description  of  the  Grand  Sable,  or  great 
sand-dunes  of  Lake  Superior,  is  given  in  Foster 
and  Whitney's  Report  on  the  Geology  of  the  Lake 
Superior  Land  District,  Part  II.  p.  131. 

"The  Grand  Sable  possesses  a  scenic  interest 
little  inferior  to  that  of  the  Pictured  Rocks.  The 
explorer  passes  abruptly  from  a  coast  of  consoli 
dated  sand  to  one  of  loose  materials ;  and  although 
in  the  one  case  the  cliffs  are  less  precipitous,  yet 
in  the  other  they  attain  a  higher  altitude.  He 
sees  before  him  a  long  reach  of  coast,  resembling 
a  vast  sand-bank,  more  than  three  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  in  height,  without  a  trace  of  vegetation. 
Ascending  to  the  top,  rounded  hillocks  of  blown 
sand  are  observed,  with  occasional  clumps  of  trees, 
standing  out  like  oases  in  the  desert." 

Page  133.     Onaway  !    Awake,  beloved  ! 
The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found  in  Lit- 
tell's  Living  Age,  Vol.  XXV.  p.  45. 

Page  134.     Or  the  Red  Swan  floating,  flying. 

The  fanciful  tradition  of  the  Red  Swan  may  be 
found  in  Schoolcraft'e  Algic  Researches,  Vol.  II. 
p.  9.  Three  brothers  were  hunting  on  a  wager  to 
see  who  would  bring  home  the  first  game. 

"  They  were  to  shoot  no  other  animal,"  so  the 
legend  says,  "  but  such  as  each  was  in  the  habit 
of  killing.  They  set  out  different  ways : 
Odjibwa,  the  youngest,  had  not  gone  far  before 
he  saw  a  bear,  an  animal  he  was  not  to  kill,  by 
the  agreement.  He  followed  him  close,  and  drove 
an  arrow  through  him,  which  brought  him  to  the 
ground.  Although  contrary  to  the  bet,  he  imme 
diately  commenced  skinning  him,  when  suddenly 
something  red  tinged  all  the  air  around  him.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes,  thinking  he  was  perhaps  de 
ceived  ;  but  without  effect,  for  the  red  hue  con 
tinued.  At  length  he  heard  a  strange  noise  at  a 
distance.  It  first  appeared  like  a  human  voice, 
but  after  following  the  sound  for  some  distance, 
he  reached  the  shores  of  a  lake,  and  soon  saw  the 
object  he  was  looking  for.  At  a  distance  out  in 
the  lake  sat  a  most  beautiful  Red  Swan,  whose 
plumage  glittered  in  the  sun,  and  who  would  now 
and  then  make  the  same  noise  he  had  heard.  He  was 
within  long  bow-shot,  and,  pulling  the  arrow  from 
the  bowstring  up  to  his  ear,  took  deliberate  aim 
and  shot.  The  arrow  took  no  effect ;  and  he  shot 
and  shot  again  till  his  quiver  was  empty.  Still  the 
swan  remained,  moving  round  and  round,  stretch 
ing  its  long  neck  and  dipping  its  bill  into  the  water, 
as  if  heedless  of  the  arrows  shot  at  it.  Odjibwa 
ran  home,  and  got  all  his  own  and  his  brothers' 
arrows,  and  shot  them  all  away.  He  then  stood 
and  gazed  at  the  beautiful  bird.  While  standing, 
he  remembered  his  brothers'  saying  that  in  their 
deceased  father's  medicine-sack  were  three  magic 
arrows.  Off  he  started,  his  anxiety  to  kill  the 
swan  overcoming  all  scruples.  At  any  other 
time,  he  would  have  deemed  it  sacrilege  to  open 
his  father's  medicine-sack;  but  now  he  hastily 
seized  the  three  arrows  and  ran  back, .  leaving  the 


NOTES. 


343 


other  contents  of  the  sack  scattered  over  the 
lodge.  The  swan  was  still  there.  He  shot  the 
first  arrow  with  great  precision,  and  came  very 
near  to  it.  The  second  came  still  closer ;  as  he 
took  the  last  arrow,  he  felt  his  arm  firmer,  and 
drawing  it  up  with  vigor,  saw  it  pass  through  the 
neck  of  the  swan  a  little  above  the  breast.  Still 
it  did  not  prevent  the  bird  from  flying  off,  which 
it  did,  however,  at  first  slowly,  flapping  its  wings 
and  rising  gradually  into  the  air,  and  then  flying 
off  towards  the  sinking  of  the  sun." — pp.  10-12. 

Page  136.     When  I  think  of  my  beloved. 
.     The   original  of  this   song  may  be  found  in 
Oneota,  p.  15. 

Page  136.     Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin. 

The  Indians  hold  the  maize,  or  Indian  corn,  in 
great  veneration.  "They  esteem  it  so  important 
and  divine  a  grain,"  says  Schoolcraft,  "that  their 
story-tellers  invented  various  tales,  in  which  this 
idea  is  symbolized  under  the  form  of  a  special 
gift  from  the  Great  Spirit.  The  Odjibwa-Al- 
gonquins,  who  call  it  Mon-da-min,  that  is,  the 
Spirit's  grain  or  berry,  have  a  pretty  story  of  this 
kind,  in  which  the  stalk  in  full  tassel  is  repre 
sented  as  descending  from  the  sky,  under  the 
guise  of  a  handsome  youth,  in  answer  to  the 
prayers  of  a  young  man  at  his  fast  virility,  or 
coming  to  manhood. 

"  It  is  well  known  that  corn-planting  and  corn- 
gathering,  at  least  among  all  the  still  uncolonized 
tribes,  are  left  entirely  to  the  females  and  chil 
dren,  and  a  few  superannuated  old  men.  It  is  not 
generally  known,  perhaps,  that  this  labor  is  not 
compulsory,  and  that  it  is  assumed  by  the  females 
as  a  just  equivalent,  in  their  view,  for  the  onerous 
and  continuous  labor  of  the  other  sex,  in  provid 
ing  meats,  and  skins  for  clothing,  by  the  chase, 
and  in  defending  their  villages  against  their  ene 
mies,  and  keeping  intruders  off  their  territories. 
A  good  Indian  housewife  deems  this  a  part  of  her 
prerogative,  and  prides  herself  to  have  a  store 
of  corn  to  exercise  her  hospitality ,  or  duly  honor 
her  husband's  hospitality,  in  the  entertainment 
of  the  lodge  guests."—  Oneoto,  p.  82 

Page  137.  Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruit 
ful.  ° 

"A  singular  proof  of  this  belief,  in  both  sexes, 
of  the  mysterious  influence  of  the  steps  of  a  woman, 
on  the  vegetable  and  insect  creation,  is  found  in 
an  ancient  custom,  which  was  related  to  me,  re 
specting  corn-planting.  It  was  the  practice  of 
the  hunter's  wife,  when  the  field  of  corn  had 
been  planted,  to  choose  the  first  dark  or  over 
clouded  evening  to  perform  a  secret  circuit,  sans 
habiUeinent.  around  the  field.  For  this  purpose 
she  slipped  out  of  the  lodge  in  the  evening,  un 
observed,  to  some  obscure  nook,  where  she  com 
pletely  disrobed.  Then,  taking  her  matchecota, 
or  principal  garment,  in  one  hand,  she  dragged  it 
around  the  field.  This  was  thought  to  insure  a 
prolific  crop,  and  to  prevent  the  assaults  of  insects 
and  worms  upon  the  grain.  It  was  supposed  they 
could  not  creep  over  the  charmed  line.  —UneOta, 
p.  83. 

Page  137.  With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound 
him. 

"These  cords,"  says  Mr.  Tanner,   "are  made 
of    the    bark    of    the  elm-tree,    by  boiling  and 
then  immersing  it  in  cold  water.     .    .   .    . 
leader  of  a  war  party  commonly  carries  several 
fastened  about  his  waist,  and  if,  in  the  course  ol 
the  fight,    any    one  of    his   young  men  takes 
prisoner,  it  is  his  duty  to  bring  him  immediately 
to  the  chief,  to  be  tied,  and  the  latter  is  respon 
sible  for  his  safe  keeping."— Narrative  oj  Captiv 
ity  and  Adventures,  p.  412. 


Page  138. 

Waycrnin,  the  thief  of  cornfields, 

Paimosaid,  who  steals  the.  maize-ear. 

"If  one  of  the  young  female  huskers  finds  a 
red  ear  of  corn,  it  is  typical  of  a  brave  admirer, 
and  is  regarded  as  a  fitting  present  to  some  young 
warrior.  But  if  the  ear  be  crooked,  and  tapering 
to  a  point,  no  matter  what  color,  the  whole  circle 
is  set  in  a  roar,  and  wa-ye-min  is  the  word 
shouted  aloud.  It  is  the  symbol  of  a  thief  in  the 
cornfield.  It  is  considered  as  the  image  of  an  old 
mar.  stooping  as  he  enters  the  lot.  Had  the  chisel 
of  Praxiteles  been  employed  to  produce  this 
image,  it  could  not  more  vividly  bring  to  the 
minds  of  the  merry  group  the  idea  of  a  pilferer  of 
their  favorite  mondiimin 

"  The  literal  meaning  of  the  term  is,  a  mass,  or 
crooked  ear  of  grain  ;  but  the  ear  of  corn  so  called 
is  a  conventional  type  of  a  little  old  man  pilfering 
ears  of  corn  in  a  cornfield.  It  is  in  this  manner  that 
a  single  word  or  term,  in  these  curious  languages, 
becomes  the  fruitful  parent  of  many  ideas.  And 
we  can  thus  perceive  why  it  is  that  the  word  wa- 
gt-inin  is  alone  competent  to  excite  merriment  in 
the  husking  circle. 

"  This  term  is  taken  as  the  basis  of  the  cereal 
chorus,  or  corn  song,  as  sung  by  the  Northern 
Algonquin  tribes.  It  is  coupled  with  the  phrase 
Paimosaid,— a,  permutative  form  of  the  Indian 
substantive  made  from  the  verb  pim-o-sa,  to 
walk.  Its  literal  meaning  is,  he  who  /valks,  or  the 
walker  ;  but  the  ideas  conveyed  by  it  are,  he 
who  walks  by  night  to  pilfer  corn.  It  offers, 
therefore,  a  kind  of  parallelism  in  expression  to 
the  preceding  term." — Oneota,  p.  254. 

Page  141.  Pagasaing,  with  thirteen  pieces. 
This  Game  of  the  Bowl  is  the  principal  game  of 
hazard  among  the  Northern  tribes  of  Indians. 
Mr.  Schoolcraft  gives  a  particular  account  of  it 
in  Oneota,  p.  85.  ''This  game,"  he  says,  "is 
very  fascinating  to  some  portions  of  the  Indians. 
They  stake  at  it  their  ornaments,  weapons, 
clothing,  canoes,  horses,  everything  in  fact  they 
possess  ;  and  have  been  known,  it  is  said,  to  set 
up  their  wives  and  children,  and  even  to  forfeit 
their  own  liberty.  Of  such  desperate  stakes  I 
have  seen  no  examples,  nor  do  1  think  the  game 
itself  in  common  use.  It  is  rather  confined  to 
certain  persons,  who  hold  the  relative  rank  of 
gamblers  in  Indian  society, — men  who  are  not 
noted  as  hunters  or  warriors,  or  steady  providers 
for  their  families.  Among  these  are  persons  who 
bear  the  term  of  Icnadizze-wug,  that  is,  wan 
derers  about  the  country,  braggadocios,  or  fops. 
It  can  hardly  be  classed  with  the  popular  games 
of  amusement,  by  which  skill  and  dexterity  are 
acquired.  I  have  generally  found  the  chiefs  and 
graver  men  of  the  tribes,  who  encourage  the 
young  men  to  play  ball,  and  are  sure  to  be  pres 
ent  at  the  customary  sports,  to  witness,  and 
i  sanction,  and  applaud  them,  speak  lightly  and 
!  disparagingly  of  this  game  of  hazard  Yet  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  some  of  the  chiefs,  distin 
guished  in  war  and  the  chase  at  the  West,  can 
be  referred  to  as  lending  their  example  to  its 
fascinating  power." 

See  also  his  HMory.  Condition^  and  Prospect* 
:  of  the,  Indian  Tribes,  Part  II.  p.  72. 

Page  144.  To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sand- 
\  atone. 

The  reader  will  find  a  long  description  of  the 
Pictured  Rocks  in  Foster  and  Whitney  s  *&%" 
on  the  fJtolwi  <>f  tf'f  I'**'  Superior  Land  IM» 
trii-t.    Part  II.    p.    124.     From  this   I  make  the 
•  following  extract : — 

"The  Pictured  Rocks  may  be  described,  n 
ceneral  terms,  as  a  series  of  sandstone  blufls  ex 
tending  along  the  shore  of  Lake  Superior  for 


344 


NOTES. 


about  five  miles,  and  rising,  in  most  places,  verti 
cally  from  the  water,  without  any  beach  at  the 
base,  to  a  height  varying  from  fifty  to  nearly  two 
hundred  feet.  Were  they  simply  a  line  of  cliffs, 
they  might  not,  so  far  as  relates  to  height  or 
extent,  be  worthy  of  a  rank  among  great  natural 
curiosities,  although  such  an  assemblage  of  rocky 
strata,  washed  by  the  waves  of  the  great  lake, 
would  not,  under  any  circumstances,  be  destitute 
of  grandeur.  To  the  voyager,  coasting  along 
their  base  in  his  frail  canoe,  they  would,  at  all 
times,  be  an  object  of  dread ;  the  recoil  of  the 
surf,  the  rock-bound  coast,  affording,  for  miles, 
no  place  of  refuge, — the  lowering  sky,  the  rising 
wind, — all  these  would  excite  his  apprehension, 
and  induce  him  to  ply  a  vigorous  oar  until  the 
dreaded  wall  was  passed.  But  in  the  Pictured 
Bocks  there  are  two  features  which  communicate 
to  the  scenery  a  wonderful  and  almost  unique 
character.  These  are,  first,  the  curious  manner  in 
which  the  cliffs  have  been  excavated  and  worn 
away  by  the  action  of  the  lake,  which,  for  cen 
turies,  has  dashed  an  ocean-like  surf  against  their 
base  ;  and,  second,  the  equally  curious  manner  in 
which  large  portions  of  the  surface  have  been 
colored  by  bands  of  brilliant  hues. 

"  It  is  from  the  latter  circumstance  that  the 
name,  by  which  these  cliffs  are  known  to  the 
American  traveller,  is  derived ;  while  that  ap 
plied  to  them  by  the  French  voyageurs  ('  Les 
Portails ')  is  derived  from  the  former,  and  by 
far  the  most  striking  peculiarity. 

"  The  term  Pictured  Hocks  has  been  in  use  for 
a  great  length  of  time ;  but  when  it  was  first  ap 
plied,  we  have  been  unable  to  discover.  It  would 
seem  that  the  first  travellers  were  more  impressed 
with  the  novel  and  striking  distribution  of  colors 
on  the  surface  than  with  the  astonishing  variety 
of  form  into  which  the  cliffs  themselves  have  been 
worn , 

' '  Our  voyageurs  had  many  legends  to  relate  of 
the  pranks  of  the  Menni-bojou  in  these  caverns, 
and,  in  answer  to  our  inquiries,  seemed  disposed  to 
fabricate  stories,'without  end,  of  the  achievements 
of  this  Indian  deity." 

Page  150.  Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were 
lifted. 

In  this  manner,  and  with  such  salutations,  was 
Father  Marquette  received  by  the  Illinois.  See 
his  Voyages  et  Decouvertes,  Section  V. 

Page  167. 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder. 

The  words  of  St.  Augustine  are, — "  De  vitiia 
nostris  scalam  nobis  facimus,  si  vitia  ipsa  calca- 
mus." 

Sermon  III.   De  Ascensione. 

Page  167.     The  Phantom  Ship. 
A  detailed  account  of  this    ' '  apparition  of  a 
Ship  in  the  Air  "  is  given  by   Cotton  Mather  in 


{his  Magnolia,  Christ i,  Book  I.  Ch.  VI.  It  is  con- 
;  tained  in  a  letter  from  the  Rev.  James  Pierpont, 
Pastor  of  New  Haven.  To  this  account  Mather 
adds  these  words  : — 

"Reader,  there  being  yet  living  so  many  credi 
ble  gentlemen  that  were  eye-witnesses  of  this 
wonderful  thing,  I  venture  to  publish  it  for  a 
thing  as  undoubted  as  't  is  wonderful." 

Page  169.     And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho. 

Jfacho,  in  Spanish,  signifies  a  mule.  Oolon- 
drina  is  the  feminine  form  of  (Jolondrino,  a  swal 
low,  and  also  a  cant  name  for  a  deserter. 

Page  170.  Oliver  Basselin. 
Oliver  Basselin,  the  ' '  Pere  joyeux  du  Vaude- 
Iville,"  flourished  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
gave  to  his  convivial  songs  the  name  of  his  native 
1  valleys,  in  which  he  sang  them,  Vaux-de-Vire. 
This  name  was  afterwards  corrupted  into  the 
j  modern  Vaudeville. 

Page  171.      Victor  Galbraith. 

This  poem  is  founded  on  fact.  Victor  Gal 
braith  was  a  bugler  in  a  company  of  volunteer 
cavalry,  and  was  shot  in  Mexico  for  some  breach 
of  discipline.  It  is  a  common  superstition  among 
soldiers  that  no  balls  will  kill  them  unless 
their  names  are  written  on  them.  The  old 
proverb  says,  u  Every  bullet  has  its  billet." 

Page  171.     I  remember  the  sea-Jightfar  away. 

This  was  the  engagement  between  the  Enter 
prise  and  Boxer,  off  the  harbor  of  Portland,  in 
which  both  captains  were  slain.  They  were 
buried  side  by  side,  in  the  cemetery  on  Mountjoy. 

Page  173.     Santa  Filomena. 

"  At  Pisa  the  church  of  San  Francisco  contains 
a  chapel  dedicated  lately  to  Santa  Filomena  ; 
over  the  altar  is  a  picture,  by  Sabatelli,  represent 
ing  the  Saint  as  a  beautiful,  nymph-like  figure, 
floating  down  from  heaven,  attended  by  two 
angels  bearing  the  lily,  palm,  and  javelin,  and 
beneath,  in  the  foreground,  the  sick  and  maimed 
who  are  healed  by  her  intercession. " — MRS.  JAME 
SON,  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  II.  298. 


Page  406.  The  Children's  Crusade. 
"The  Children's  Crusade"  was  left  unfinished 
by  Mr.  Longfellow.  It  is  founded  upon  an  event 
which  occurred  in  the  year  1212.  An  army  of 
twenty  thousand  children,  mostly  boys,  under  the 
lead  of  a  boy  of  ten  years,  named  Nicolas,  set  out 
from  Cologne  for  the  Holy  Land.  When  they 
reached  Genoa  only  seven  thousand  remained. 
There,  as  the  sea  dicl  not  divide  to  allow  them  to 
march  dry-shod  to  the  East,  they  broke  up.  Some 
got  as  far  as  Rome;  two  ship-loads  sailed  from 
Pisa,  and  were  not  heard  of  again;  the  rest  strag 
gled  back  to  Germany. 


ra^rnilna : 
[?i^^ 


[The  titles  in  small  capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work,  those  in  lower 
case  are  single  poems,  or  the  subdivisions  of  long  poems.] 


Aftermath,  180. 

Afternoon  in  February,  72. 

Air,  The,  252. 

Allah,  283: 

Amalti,  262. 

Angel  and  the  Child,  The,  249. 

Anne  of  Tharaw,  76. 

April  day,  An,  16. 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The,  74. 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The,  66. 

Artist,  The,  283. 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  294. 

Autumn,  16,  74. 

Autumn  Within,  299. 

Avon,  To  the,  296. 

Azrael,  220. 

Ballad  of  Carmilhan,  The,  212. 

Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,  A,  273. 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  29. 

Baron  of  St.  Castine,  The,  217. 

Barrages,  282. 

Bayard  Taylor,  285. 

Beatrice,  24. 

Becalmed,  291. 

Beleaguered  City,  The,  15. 

BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  THE,  63. 

Belfrv  of  Bruges,  64. 

Belisarius,  263. 

Bell  of  Atri,  The,  208. 

Bells  of  Lynn,  The,  238. 

Bells  of  San  Bias,  The,  297. 

Beware,  27. 

Bird  and  the  Ship,  The,  26. 

Birds  of  Killingworth,  The,  205. 

Birds  of  Passage,  108. 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT  THE  FIRST,  166. 

FLIGHT  THE  SECOND,  176. 

FLIGHT  THE  THIRD,  178. 

FLIGHT  THE  FOURTH,  261. 

FLIGHT  THE  FIFTH<-  270. 
Bishop  Sigurd  at  Salten  Fiord,  196. 
Black  Knight,  The,  28. 
Blessing  the  Cornfields,  136. 
Blind  Bartimeus,  40. 
Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille,  111. 
BOOK  OF  SONNETS,  264. 

PART  II.,  275. 
Books,  My,  300. 
Boston,  277. 

Boy  and  the  Brook,  The,  248. 
Bridge,  The,  70. 
Bridge  of  Cloud,  The,  236. 
Broken  Oar,  The,  278. 
Brook,  The,  23. 

Brook  and  the  Wave,  The,  179. 
Builders,  The,  107. 

Building  of  the  Long  Serpent,  The,  197. 
Building  of  the  Ship,  The,  100. 


Burial  of  the  Minnisink,  18. 
Burial  of  the  Poet,  The,  290. 
BY  THE  FIRESIDE,  107. 
BY  THE  SEASIDE,  100. 

Cadenabbia,  261. 

Canzone,  284. 

Carillon,  63. 

Castle  by  the  Sea,  The,  27. 

Castle-Builder,  The,  179. 

Castles  in  Spain,  271. 

Catawba  Wine,  173. 

Celestial  Pilot,  The,  23. 

Challenge,  The,  179. 

Challenge  of  Thor,  The,  190. 

Chamber  over  the  Gate,  The,  285. 

Changed,  179. 

Charlemagne,  221. 

Charles  Sunnier,  261. 

Chaucer,  265. 

Child  Asleep,  The,  24. 

Children,  175. 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER,  THE,  33. 

Children's  Crusade,  The,  294. 

Children's  Hour,  The,  176. 

Chimes,  295. 

Christinas  Bells,  237. 

Christmas  Carol,  A,  114. 

Chrysaor.  104. 

City  and  the  Sea,  The,  295. 

Cobbler  of  Hagenau,  The,  210. 

Consolation,  248. 

Coplas  de  Manrique,  19. 

COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANPISH,  THE,  152. 

Crew  of  the  Long  Serpent,  The,  198. 

Cumberland,  The,  176. 

CURFEW,  77. 

Dante,  74,  284. 

Day  is  Done,  The,  71. 

Day  of  Sunshine,  A,  177. 

Daybreak,  175. 

Davlight  and  Moonlight,  169. 

Dead,  The,  26. 

Death  of  Kwasind,  The,  145. 

Decoration  Day,  2!(5. 

Dedication  to  the  Seaside  and  the  Fireside,  99- 

Dedication  to  Ultima  Thule,  285. 

Delia,  275. 

Descent  of  the  Muses,  The,  276. 

Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape,  The,  174. 

Divina  Commcdia,  238. 

Drinking  Song,  73. 

Dutch  Picture,  A,  270. 

EARLIER  POEMS.  16. 
Einar  Tamberskelver,  201. 
Elected  Knight,  The,  32. 
Elegiac,  288. 
Elegiac  Verse,  297- 


346 


INDEX. 


Eliot's  Oak,  276. 

Elizabeth,  224. 

Emma  and  Eginhard,  222. 

Emperor's  Bird's-Nest,  The,  169. 

Emperor's  Glove,  The,  272. 

Enceladus,  176. 

Endymion,  38. 

Epimetheus,  180. 

EVANGELINE,  78. 

Evening  Star,  The,  74. 
Excelsior,  42. 

Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo,  185. 

Famine,  The,  147. 

Fata  Morgana,  178. 

Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz,  175. 

Finales  to  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  207,  219,  234. 

Fire,  283. 

Fire  of  Drift- Wood,  The,  106. 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE,  235. 

Flower-de-Luce,  235. 

Flowers,  14. 

FOLK  SONGS,  288. 

Footsteps  of  Angels,  13. 

Forsaken,  283. 

Four  by  the  Clock,  296. 

Four  Lakes  of  Madison,  The,  296. 

Four  Princesses  at  Wilma,  The,  278. 

Four  Winds,  The,  117. 

Fragment,  A,  297. 

From  the  French,  298. 

From  my  Arm-Chair,  285. 

From  the  Spanish  Cancioneros,  179. 

Fugitive,  The,  247. 

Galaxy,  The,  265. 
Garden,  In  the,  253,  256. 
Garfield,  President,  295. 
Gaspar  Becerra,  109. 
Ghosts,  The,  146. 
Giotto's  Tower,  238. 
Gleam  of  Sunshine,  A,  65. 
Goblet  of  Life,  The,  40. 
Goa's  Acre,  39. 
Golden  Milestone,  The,  172. 
Good  Part,  The,  43. 
Good  Shepherd,  The,  22. 
Grave,  The,  25. 
Gudrun,  195. 

HANDFUL  OF  TRANSLATIONS,  A,  247. 
HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE,  THE,  257. 
Happiest  Land,  The,  26. 
Haroun  Al  Kaschid,  274. 
Harvest  Moon,  The,  276. 
Haunted  Chamber,  The,  178. 
Haunted  Houses,  168. 
Hawthorne,  237- 
Helen  of  Tvre,  287. 
Hemlock  Tree,  The,  75. 
Hermes  Trismegistus.  291. 
Herons  of  Elmwood,  The,  270. 
Hiawatha  and  Mudjekeewis,  121. 
Hiawatha  and  the  Pearl-Feather,  129. 
Hiawatha's  Childhood,  119. 
Hiawatha's  Departure,  150. 
Hiawatha's  Fasting,  123. 
Hiawatha's  Fishing,  127. 
Hiawatha's  Friends,  125. 
Hiawatha's  Lamentation,  139. 
Hiawatha's  Sailing,  126. 
Hiawatha's  Wedding-Feast,  132. 
Hiawatha's  Wooing,  131. 
Holidays,  278. 

House  of  Epimetheus,  252,  255. 
Hunting  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis,  The,  142. 
Hymn,  HI. 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns,  17. 
Hymn  to  the  Night,  12. 


II  Ponte  Vecchio  di  Firenze,  266. 

Image  of  God,  The,  23. 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge,  168. 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown,  275. 

IN  THE  HARBOR,  291. 

Interludes  to  Tales  of  a  Wavside   Inn,  184,  187, 

188,  190,  203,  205,  209,  210",  212,  214.  216,  217, 

221,  222,  224,  228,  230,  231,  233. 
Introduction  to  the  Song  of  Hiawatha,  115. 
Iron  Beard,  193. 
Iron  Pen,  The,  286. 
It  is  not  always  May,  39. 

Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport,  170. 
John  Alden,  157. 
JUDAS  MACCAB^EUS,  240. 
Jugurtha,  286. 

Kambalu,  209. 

Keats,  265. 

KE'RAMOS,  267. 

Killed  at  the  Ford,  238. 

King  Christian,  25. 

King  Olaf  and  Earl  Sigvalt,  200. 

King  Olaf's  Christmas,  197. 

King  Olaf's  Death-Drink,  201. 

King  Olaf's  Return,  190. 

King  Olaf's  War-Horns,  200. 

King  Robert  of  Sicily,  188. 

King  Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard,  199. 

King  Trisanku,  274. 

King  Witlaf  s  Drinking-Horn,  109. 

La  Chaudeau,  At,  299. 

Ladder  of  St.  Augustine,  The,  167. 

Lady  Wentworth,  215. 

Landlord's  Tales,  The,  183,  233. 

Leap  of  Roushan  Beg,  The,  273. 

Legend  Beautiful,  The,  216. 

Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  The,  188. 

Legend  of  the  Crossbill,  The,  76. 

L'Envoi,  28. 

L'ENVOi,  290,  300. 

Light  of  Stars,  The,  13. 

Lighthouse,  The,  106. 

Little  Bird  in  the  Air,  A,  198. 

Loss  and  Gain,  299. 

Love  and  Friendship,  153. 

Lover's  Errand,  The,  155. 

Luck  of  Edenhall.  The,  32. 

Mad  River,  293. 

Maiden  and  Weathercock,  289. 

Maidenhood,  40! 

March  of  Miles  Standish,  The,  162. 

MASQUE  OF  PANDORA,  THE,  250. 

Meeting,  The,  178. 

Memories,  299. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  300. 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,  15, 

Miles  Standish,  152. 

Milton,  265. 

MISCELLANEOUS,  37,  65. 

Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore,  The,  228. 

Monte  Cassino,  262. 

Moonlight,  296.  / 

Moods.  278. 

Morituri  Salutamus,  259. 

Mother's  Ghost,  The,  232. 

Musician's  Tales,  The,  190,  212,  232. 

My  Cathedral,  290. 

My  Lost  Youth,  171. 

Nameless  Grave,  A,  266. 

Native  Land,  The,  23. 

Nature,  275. 

Night,  290. 

Noel,  239. 

Norman  Baron,  The,  67. 


INDEX. 


347 


Nun  of  Nidaros,  The,  202. 
Nuremberg,  66. 

Occtiltation  of  Orion,  The,  69. 

Old  Age,  283. 

Old  Bridge  at  Florence,  The,  266. 

Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The,  73. 

Old  St.  David's  at  Radnor,  288. 

Oliver  Basselin,  170. 

Olympus,  250. 

On  the  Terrace  of  the  Aigalades,  282. 

Open  Window,  The,  109. 

Ovid  in  Exile,  280. 

Palingenesis,  236. 

Parker  Cleaveland,  277. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis,  141. 

Paul  Revere' s  Ride,  183. 

Peace  Pipe,  The,  116. 

Pegasus  in  Pound,  109. 

PERSONAL  POEMS,  299. 

Phantom  Ship.  The,  167. 

Picture-Writing,  138. 

POEMS  ox  SLAVERY,  42. 

Poetic  Aphorisms,  77. 

Poet's  Calendar,  The,  291. 

Poet'sTales,  The,  205,  215,  221. 

Poets,  The,  276. 

Possibilities,  300. 

Prelude,  298. 

Preludes  to  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  181,  207,  220. 

Prelude  to  Voices  of  the  Night,  11. 

Priscilla,  160. 

Prometheus,  166. 

Psalm  of  Life,  A,  12. 

Quadroon  Girl,  The,  44. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty,  191. 

Queen  Thyri  and  the  Angelica  Stalks,  199. 

Quiet  Life,  A,  299. 

Rain  in  Summer,  67. 

Rainy  Day,  The,  39. 

Raud  the  Strong,  196. 

Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  The,  13. 

Remorse.  249. 

Resignation,  107. 

Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face,  The,  272. 

Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher,  The,  233. 

Robert  Burns,  287. 

Rope  walk,  The,  172. 

Saga  of  King  Olaf,  The,  190. 

Sailing  of  the  Mayflower,  The,  158. 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Glass,  107. 

Sandalphon,  175. 

Santa  Filomena,  173.  , 

Santa  Teresa's  Book-Mark,  249. 

Scanderbeg,  230. 

Sea  hath  its  Pearls,  The,  76. 

SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE,  THE,  99. 

Seaweed,  71. 

Secret  of  the  Sea,  The,  105. 

Sermon  of  St.  Francis,  The,  263. 

SEVEN  SONNETS  AND  A  CANZONE,  283. 

Shadow,  A,  266. 

Shakespeare,  265. 

Sicilian's  Tales,  The,  188,  208,  228. 

Siege  of  Kazan,  The,  247. 

Sifting  of  Peter,  The,  288. 

Singers,  The,  110. 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  105. 

Skeleton  in  Armor,  The,  29. 

Skerry  of  Shrieks,  The,  192. 

Slave'in  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The,  43. 

Slave  Singing  at  Midnight,  The,  44. 

Slave's  Dream,  The,  42. 

Sleep,  266. 

Snow-Flakes,  177. 


Something  left  Undone,  177. 

Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  The,  134. 

Song,  275. 

SONG  OF  HIAWATHA,  THE,  115. 

Song  of  the  Bell,  27. 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land,  28. 

Songo  River,  264. 

SONGS,  71. 

Sonnet,  110. 

SONNETS,  74,  290. 

Sound  of  the  Sea,  The,  266. 

Spanish  Jew's  Tales,  The,  188,  209,  220,  23<X 

SPANISH  STUDENT,  THE,  45. 

Spinning-Wheel,  The,  163. 

Spirit  of  Poetry,  The,  18. 

Spring,  24. 

Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door,  The,  76. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  278. 

Student's  Tales,  The,  185,  210,  217,  222. 

Summer  Day  by  the  Sea,  A,  266. 

Sundown,  295. 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills,  17. 

Suspiria,  111. 

TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 

PART  FIRST,  181. 

PART  .SECOND,  207. 

PART  THIRD,  220. 
Tegner's  Drapa,  110. 
Terrestrial  Paradise,  The,  24. 
Thangbrand  the  Priest,  195. 
Theologian's  Tales,  The,  203,  216,  224. 
The  Poet  and  hi.s  Songs,  290. 
The  Tide  Rises,  the  Tide  Falls,  289. 
Thora  of  Rimol,  191. 
Three  Friends  of  Mine,  264. 
Three  Kings,  The,  274. 
Three  Silences  of  Molinos,  277. 
Tides,  The,  266. 
To  a  Child,  68. 

To  an  old  Danish  Song-Book,  72. 
To  Cardinal  Richelieu,  248. 
To  Italy,  249. 
To  my  "Brooklet,  282. 
To  the  Driving  Clouds,  70. 
To  the  River  Charles,  39. 
To  the  River  Rhone,  277. 
To  the  River  Yvette,  272. 
To  the  Stork,  248. 
To  Vittoria  Colonna,  284. 
To  William  E.  ('banning,  42. 
To-morrow,  23,  238. 
Torquemada,  203. 

Tower  of  Prometheus  on  Mount  Caucasus,  280. 
TRANSLATIONS.  19,  75,  279,  298. 
Travels  by  the  Fireside,  261. 
Twilight. '105. 
Two  Angels,  The.  169. 
Two  Locks  of  Hair,  The,  38. 
Two  Rivers,  The,  277. 

ULTIMA  THULE. 
PART  I.,  287. 
PART  II.,  291. 

Venice,  276. 
Victor  Galbraith,  171. 
Victor  and  Vanquished,  299. 
Village  Blacksmith,  The,  37. 
Virgil's  First  Eclogue,  279. 
Vittoria  Colonna,  271. 
VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT,  11. 
Vox  Populi,  178. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  73. 
Wanderer's  Night  Songs,  249. 
Wapentake,  278. 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The,  1**8. 
Warning,  The,  45. 


348 


INDEX. 


Wave,  The,  26. 

Wayside  Inn,  The,  181. 

Weariness,  177. 

Wedding-Day,  The,  165. 

White  Czar,  The,  275. 

White  Man's  Foot,  The,  149. 

Whither,  27. 

Windmill,  The,  289. 

Wind  over  the  Chimney,  The,  237. 

Wine  of  Jurancon,  The,  298. 


Witnesses,  The,  44. 
Woods  in  Winter.  16. 
Woodstock  Park,  278. 
Workshop  of  Hephaestus,  The,  250. 
Wraith  in  the  Mist,  A,  274. 
Wraith  of  Odin,  The,  193. 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The,  31. 

Youth  and  Age,  283. 


84  $#iVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los 'Angeles 
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